


The Art of Disenchantment

by quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)



Series: The Fallacies of Devotion [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Being Emotionally Idiotic and Constipated, Catharsis, Character Development, Dave has Difficulties with Relationships, Drinking, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Miserable Mornings After, Oral Sex, Playwright Alpha Dave, Probably(?) A Happy Ending, Regency Era AU, RoseMary is alluded to, Sibling Arguments: Nuclear Fallout, Sibling Incest, Some Period-Typical Homophobia, Unhealthy Relationships, War (mentioned) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2019-10-07 09:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique
Summary: David Lalonde is a successful playwright that takes great joy in mocking the upper echelons of society to which his family had once belonged. His brother, Dirk, has long since attempted to raise their reputation and good name from the mud, though David has made that as difficult as possible and taken it upon himself to slander Dirk's own name. David's feelings towards his brother grow ever more complicated after a lapse of control one night, resulting in Dirk fleeing and David being left to not only face the fallout- but his own mistakes.





	1. In Which David Lalonde Has A No Good, Very Terrible Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel that absolutely nobody asked for, and nobody but me wanted. It's character davelopment, bitches. Reading the first one is highly recommended even if it's just like, 10k of smut; this starts immediately afterwards, though I guess enough context is given that y'all can figure out what's what.
> 
> I'm not certain that this will actually /be/ 6 chapters, but I'm determined to finish it. And also potentially do a DirkJake thing in the same universe, but that's in the nebulous future.

David awakens on a bed that isn’t his, in a room that isn’t his, and with his head pounding in protest as he cracks crusty eyelids open to greet the damnably bright light of the morning sun.

All things said, it’s far from an unusual position for him to be in, and so he doesn’t think anything of it. He hisses out a curse at the curtains for being drawn, the bloody contrary things, and yanks the duvet over himself, so he can wait for the headache to subside at least somewhat, before he attempts moving. And it would be prudent to figure out where precisely he is.

The pillow underneath his head is soft, and it carries the scent of sex and sweat and someone else that’s oddly familiar. Strange, as he rarely recognizes his surroundings, though there is something recognizable in the drape of the curtains, in the sliver of green he can see of the outside, washed out by the grey sky. Memory begins to nag at the back of his skull, enough that it prompts a movement to haul himself upright, even if it makes his stomach twist and his head spin viciously.

His eyes land on a nightgown, pooled on the floor, the linen innocuous in the light of day. He doesn’t quite dare to stand up for a closer examination- he’s quite certain that his traitorous legs won’t support it, and his stomach is rebelling simply at the idea.

David presses his face into the pillow, blocking out the worst of the light. It does nothing to cease the infernal throbbing of his head, and he knows that there is no hope of returning to slumber- he is awake, and it is the greatest misfortune to befall him just yet. He is not going to be sick. Rosalind will never let him hear the end of it if he were to cast up his accounts all over her pristine floors.1

It is almost- _almost_ \- enough to tempt him to do so anyway. With memory filtering in slowly, he distinctly recalls her rebuking him far more harshly than had been strictly necessary. Naturally, over his treatment of the boy. There is something about him, too, that David thinks he ought to remember. He squints blearily at the nightgown on the floor. Despite his state of undress, it certainly isn’t his. He has a brief moment of panic, thinking it Rosalind’s, before his senses return. Certainly, her room would smell of those ridiculous dried flowers she insists on keeping around, and she is far too neat to discard clothing in such a manner.

He cracks his eyes open once more to scan the room. It is not as empty as he had originally thought, though there are clothes missing, and items have been hastily thrown into the trunks that sit imposingly in the corner. That is-

It belongs to Dirk.

He recognizes the set- sleek black leather with silver clasps. Rosalind had requested he purchase it in town, though she had not told him the intended recipient until afterwards. He suspects that she has not told the boy who originally obtained the items; surely, he would not have kept it otherwise.

And- the library, yesterday. He remembers the look on the boy’s face, that damned mask of geniality and high society cracking and crumbling as he drew near, manners warring with instinct, as they always have. He remembers instinct and anger winning, and the sense of triumph that had shot through him as the Colonel shed that idiotic visage of the perfect, prim gentleman. It does not suit him at all. David pointedly does not think about pressing him up against the desk, nor does he remember the heat of his body, the frankly shocking amount of passion in that kiss. He did not think the boy could kiss like that- in fact, he did not think the boy had kissed at all, with his pathetic little declarations of love, especially to a green boy like the young Lord English. The sole reason he has never been a target of David’s more vindictive works is simply because he makes a fool of himself enough as is. He does not require any assistance on that matter, unlike the Colonel and anyone else he chooses to use as caricatures. Then, there is not much to be said for the boy’s taste.

Still, dread settles like a stone in his stomach, as the rest of the recollections filter in. Boldly demanding that the boy come to his rooms, and worse yet, expecting to be obeyed, if only to feel a fist smashing into his face. Dinner, tense as it was. The Colonel retiring early, with David following soon after, excusing himself as exhausted, only to return to his rooms and find them empty. The disappointment is poignant, even now, and it mingles with disgust. Neither of those emotions are familiar, and nor should he be feeling them at all. He knows full well of his brother’s disregard- in fact, he has actively encouraged it, and holds the same sort of distaste for the Colonel. Yet it worsens the feeling of gorge rising in his throat, stinging. Surely, _surely_ he has not. And yet, he is in his brother’s room- his brother’s _bed_ \- nude. But there is no brother in sight, regardless of whatever may have occurred. He tells himself he ought to be thankful for that, as it offers a scant few threads of deniability he can string together, and a shield from whatever judgement or black mood his dearest brother would have been in, should they have awoken together.

It is a small comfort, but one he nevertheless takes. And it is more than enough to bolster his determination, flagging as it was, to finally move. He forces himself upright, ignoring the throbbing in his head and the sick feeling in his stomach. It is far better that he leave here, before he is discovered by any servants, before the boy returns. David is determined to ignore the hypocrisy of calling his brother a coward, yet fleeing at the potential of seeing him- what he is doing is not a denial of everything he is, his lineage and history; it is simple common sense.

He gathers up his clothes, yanks his breeches back on and foregoes his shoes and shirt. The servants will not talk, if they see him in this state of undress. Rosalind values discretion above all else, and though it has thwarted his ability to learn of the household gossip, he finds himself thankful for it. David cannot leave the room quickly enough, and the only trace of his presence is the soiled sheets left in his wake, as inglorious a trail as ever.

-

Rosalind gives him a Look as he settles down to an unfortunately late breakfast, and promptly takes a swig of the vinegar that’s been kindly provided at the table for him. His sister is as prescient as ever, it appears. Roxanne stifles an amused giggle, though he doesn’t bother scolding the girl; he is convinced that he’s the only member of the Lalonde family that truly suffers from hangovers- the females recover remarkably well, and Dirk rarely imbibes. It is a solution that makes him intolerably boring, but given the events of the night, David is increasingly amenable to thinking more kindly of him for it. He is more amenable to reflecting on the previous night at all, now that his ablutions are complete and the vile taste has been rinsed out of his mouth.

He does note the Colonel’s absence, but he refuses to think much of it. He did not see the boy in the room, and he would not have expected to see him now. In fact, David is grateful that they remain apart, even if there is a discomfiting, nagging concern chafing at his conscience. It is of no importance. The hour is late, and Dirk rises early. There’s no doubt he’s conducting whatever business he has, and has simply elected to eat his morning meal ahead of everyone else. Of course, such avoidances are precisely the topic of their previous, and frankly disastrous conversation, though David would think that their newly intimate acquaintance would have brought an end to it. He expects dinner will be an utter fiasco, as it is a meal his dearest brother cannot avoid. Such spectacles do tend to be entertaining, however; he wonders how much needling the boy will tolerate before he damns his propriety and simply leaves. Even the most oblique of references to last night’s activities are sure to send him into a state. Though David notes that he must be careful with them, for while Roxanne will not pry too deeply or suspect a thing, Rosalind is a cunning vixen. She may deny it, but she would never turn down an opportunity to poke her nose into their business. And she certainly has been vocal in the past with her opinions, of how he treats the boy. It will be a fine line to walk, but he finds that he relishes the challenge. Innuendo, after all, is what he _does._

Then again, the boy had always been rather sensitive to such topics. There is no doubt in David’s mind that he had enjoyed the experience thoroughly, though he supposes with that much repression and such adherence to society, the Colonel would have a great deal of difficulty admitting that he did. David can forgive this, of course, though it will be diverting to see his struggle personally. It is enough to make him crack a smile, even if he doesn’t quite dare to look up.

Rosalind notices, naturally, with her damnably sharp observational skills. He would think it bordered on witchcraft, were such a thing sophisticated enough for her to utilize. If she were to dabble, he is certain that she would revolutionize the entire field, and cause its detractors to be the ones burnt at the stake.

“You’re in a remarkably good mood, for someone who has easily rid us of a family member,” she says, as a servant hands over a stack of letters. Her correspondence for the day, he assumes, though it appears rather sloppy. One is not even properly sealed- and even he ensures his letters are neat and kept private. Whether or not they remain so is an entirely different story, but he was under the impression that his sister would not employ snooping servants quite as sloppy as that. Roxanne is not nearly as careful, but even for her, this is entirely too obvious.  

“You say that as if I’ve committed murder,” he replies, slicing into the leftover roast he favors for breakfast. It’s rich, but suitable alongside the fried potatoes.

“I rather think that you wouldn’t be foolish enough to do it under my roof,” she remarks absently, skimming through the unsealed letter first. David raises an eyebrow, reaching over in an attempt to snag it from her hand.

“Is that from your lady love, sister dearest?” he asks, and perhaps his tone is a touch snide, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. Rosalind is more than used to his mannerisms, after all, and she knows when not to take offense. A shame she didn’t teach the boy when he was younger. David had made a few attempts, but he was never one with the patience for lessons- or children. And then- it had been difficult to look at him, much less spend time with him. The years have only changed that by blessing the boy with fine features.

“Not at all, though if it were, I certainly wouldn’t let you near it.” Rosalind replies, her tone casual as ever. But there’s something deliberate in her motions as she refolds it precisely, and tucks it neatly under her plate and quite out of reach. He pushes back a scowl. She is not lying. His eyes dip towards the corner of paper revealed beneath the porcelain; there are no visible words on it. A niggling concern begins to worm its way into his chest. It could not be from Dirk. He will not have told her- he would be too ashamed. Pathetic, but rightly so.

“And if it is not a sordid declaration of love,” he prompts, abandoning further attempts in favour of completing his breakfast, “why do you not let me see it?”

“I’m aware of your horridly invasive habits, brother, but this isn’t addressed to you, and I fear it would do no good to have you perusing it.”

She sounds terribly like Dirk, sometimes. It’s enough to make his hackles rise.

“Who is it from?” he asks the question flatly, the jest seeping out of his voice. “And as the head of this household and primary income provider, should I not have a right to such correspondence?”

“Oh, David,” she sighs, all faux-condescension. “If you think that way, it’s no wonder you leave after a few days at most. Your male ego must chafe at how useless you are rendered here.”

“It hurts more than any flesh wound I’ve received,” he agrees, even with three bite marks throbbing dully against his chest. “Is it addressed to our young Dirk, then? Because I would think that makes you a hypocrite, reading his post.”

“It is not; rather, it’s from him.” She is watching him far too closely for his comfort, the kind of scrutinizing glare David distinctly remembers from their mother, and from the good officers of the law whenever he awakens on a particularly lumpy pallet in a cell. His stomach has turned to lead and sunk, but he refuses to let it show. She is, after all, looking for guilt.

“Then I’ve double a right to it, given that it’s my brother’s,” he argues, extending a hand. There is no real reason that Dirk would write his elder sister a letter, with this as his current place of residence. Unless the boy has been injured tragically on his brief sojourn out. Unlikely as it is, he cannot come up with another suitable explanation as to why it would be so hastily written and remain unsealed. His brother has always been so fastidious with his correspondence. Quite against his will, David recalls their meeting in the study yesterday, letters stacked neatly, papers filled with his brother’s spidery writing. A sordid declaration of love right among them, as it happens. The same ugly satisfaction blooms in him, when he recalls sweeping them off the desk.

“You’re rather eager to claim him now, aren’t you?” An arched brow, and David feels his idiot heart skip a beat from the dead-certainty of the knowledge that she knows. She cannot, unless she were listening at the door, but that doesn’t stop a strange guilt seeping into his chest, disgustingly sobering. It has no place there.

“He’s a man of great prestige now,” he says glibly instead, slicing an egg neatly in two so that the yellow runs onto his plate. “Why should I not want to use his name to further my own career? And I think you will recall that he was the one to change his name and image to mask our connexion.”

“It would make far more sense for you to be using it as such, were you not so committed to dragging it through the mud. Can you truly wonder as to why he would want to sever such a detrimental relation?”

“I am a man of opportunity,” he demurs, his fingers curling tighter around his fork. His brother’s efforts to do precisely that had been admirable, though there is no denying they would be far more successful if he refused to stay at the Lalonde household. No, the only relation Dirk wished to sever is with him, and David of course cannot be so lax as to indulge the boy in such matters. Regardless of how poor their relationship is, they are family. The boy’s efforts to deny it are what had led to last night, and it makes David’s lip curl. He will not be so easily cast aside for the material idiocy society offers. “There exists no reason why I ought not to change course if it will benefit me. And the great Lalonde family name, of course. I distinctly recall you retaining our good father’s name, rather than eschewing it entirely for the false comforts of society.”

“I suspect we would benefit from such goodwill, given the current sentiment to the French,” Rosalind says, though David isn’t fool enough to think that this is the last he’s heard of it.

Besides, she is entirely correct.

He allows the conversation to turn to different things, light-hearted anecdotes when Roxanne enters the room, though when he attempts to retrieve the letter after his sister has left, he finds nothing but a used napkin discarded next to her plate.

His head is still pounding.

-

David’s denial lasts longer than he would have expected it to- precisely eleven hours into the second day without sign of his younger brother, when a coach pulls up in front of the estate and a servant introducing himself as being from the English household comes to collect the remainder of Colonel Strider’s things. Rosalind, he notes, does not seem particularly surprised by this turn of events. Although Roxanne is practicing her embroidery under the gimlet eye of the governess and not present to receive the servant with them, David suspects that she would not be shocked either. Everyone in the household but him was informed, it appears.

Something bitter burns in the back of his throat at the thought.

He holds his tongue while the servant is shown to Dirk’s former room, and staunchly ignores the disapproving, calculating glances cast his way by his dearest sister. He is, on the whole, thankful that company from another household is present; Rosalind would not hold her tongue otherwise, and he would not wish to be on the receiving end of yet another of her interminable lectures on his behaviour. Particularly as concerning the treatment of their younger brother.

She has long held that children ought to be coddled and spoilt, near to the point of suffocation at times, and greatly dislikes his own philosophy on the matter. Or lack thereof, as it happens. There was, after all, always someone else to look after the boy. It seems that trend has continued, given the speed at which his remaining possessions are being removed from the manor. He is sure the boy would insist on self-sufficiency, but David is no fool, no fan of self-delusion as such. Dirk, grown as he may be, is soft. He requires a steady hand and someone to take care of him. He needs orders and instructions like a whore needs drunken men in the dead of night. They may not enjoy the experience, but it is integral to their existence. David will not deny that he has eschewed his duty in the past, but it has evidently had quite the adverse effect.

He wonders if it would have been different, had he made more of an effort. Perhaps it simply would have made Dirk hate him sooner, perhaps he would have seen it happen, rather than return one day to a cold, disinterested brother. At the very least, David would have taught him to hide that disdain better.

The boy had not brought much with him- all his belongings fit into two trunks, and Rosalind promises to forward any correspondence that arrives before the senders are informed of his new residence. He does not pay overmuch attention to her going through the usual obligations of etiquette, instead letting his eyes close for a moment.

His brother, coward that he is, seems unlikely to return. And again, that damnable twinge of guilt. David had not thought he would react that way; he had not thought the boy would react at all. He rarely does, regardless of how much David pushes. Only that night, and only in the library.

He wonders if Dirk cries out as sweetly for the young lord English.

Roxanne receives letters four times a week from their dearest brother, who professes adoration to her, a wish for her to visit, and respectfully asks she pass his affections on to Rosalind, who, despite lacking that constant stream of correspondence from the good Colonel, is still the recipient of letters from him once a week. David begins to empathize with chopped liver. It does not fade after a month has gone by, and the boy’s avoidance begins to grate on his nerves.

He is not a fool; he knows that Rosalind is content seeing him only briefly, when she escorts Roxanne on the occasional visit (there have been three so far this month, and he knows that the fourth will occur by the time the week is ended). And he knows that should he offer to escort the youngest member of the family in her place, she will simply turn him down. David greatly dislikes how she seems to have concluded that the Colonel needs some sort of protection from him. As if her presence would be any sort of barrier at all. It most certainly did nothing on the night they spent together, which he has decided makes him quite ill to think about.

From the boy himself, this is to be expected. For Rosalind to so wholly take his side, though, it stings. She does not know, of this David is certain. But she must suspect something, to act so motherly towards him. Absently, he considers a motif for his play- the male lead hiding behind overly voluminous skirts of a woman with a deliberately shrill, screeching voice; his foil bursting forth with a codpiece firmly attached and comically large. It needs refining.

He wonders if the boy would enjoy its cleverness, or if he would simply see straight through to the intended offense and despise it. It _is_ rather on the nose. Perhaps another time.

David tilts his head, so he can watch Roxanne pen her letter out of more than the corner of his eye. She takes after him more than Rosalind with the sheer volume of her correspondence, though her letters are always a joy to read. Nothing as formal or forced as the stilted words his sister sometimes writes, when she is attempting to duck around a serious matter. Rose may be subtle in many ways, but that is not one of them. And Roxanne’s letters certainly lack the pointed manner that Rose’s do, when it comes to more sensitive matters.

“Are you writing to Dirk?” he asks, louder than usual to break her focus. It’s admirable, how much attention she can dedicate to each letter. David wonders if she does the same when writing to him. If she knows that he will read every word, even if his own correspondence is more infrequent.

“Oh- yes,” she answers almost immediately, fixing him with a sunny smile once she sets her quill down. “I received his latest letter yesterday, though nothing of particular interest has happened between the last time I replied and now, so my response has been tragically difficult to formulate. Not that he would mind, if I were to write about nothing of import; he says he’s always pleased to read my letters. But Mother believes rather strongly that I shouldn’t carry on and waste his time and her good paper with nonsense.”

“That certainly sounds like her,” David agrees, lips twitching up into a smile. “My darling sister can be quite the tyrant when the mood suits her, can’t she?”

“Well, I couldn’t possibly have anything to say about that,” Roxanne says primly. The effect is soon lost as she dissolved into a brief fit of laughter, unable to hide her mirth. “But- yes. She’s quite strict about my upbringing, but only because she worries.”

“And I suspect that the good Colonel is much the same?”

“They both mean well, Uncle.” Her tone is more severe than he expected, enough so that he raises an eyebrow. “I know that you and Dirk don’t agree, but he _has_ been good to me.”

“I did not mean to offend. I simply thought you were above all his,” here, David pauses; it would be wrong to misstep when Roxanne has clearly expressed a dislike of any insult towards his younger brother. He cannot deny that the younger man has done his best by their niece, but he would be hesitant to say that his methods were necessary, or at all effective. Roxanne, after all, has no need of being shaped into the vapid ideal of a young woman. “His crusade to reintegrate our family into good society.”

“I rather think I’m the reason for it!”

“Are they operating under the assumption that you naturally wish to make a good marriage? I highly doubt Rosalind is a suitable role model in that regard.”

“Perhaps. But while I have a fair amount of independence here, I must confess that I am- not considered fit company, for many of the young ladies of my own age. It is a companionship that I feel the loss off. And of course I would not be opposed to attending balls and the like, if I received any invitations. I _do_ enjoy dancing, you know.” Roxanne is twisting her hands in her lap, a nervous habit that she’s acquired from her mother, and it is the only thing that gives her true feelings about that little speech away, after her flippant conclusion.

David is not entirely certain what to make of it.

“I wasn’t aware that you felt that way,” he replies, carefully. “Surely you know that you would be welcome to visit with me, whenever you desired. I do not think the boy would stop you, if you insisted upon it. Nor would your mother.”

“No,” she says slowly, shaking her head. “I am aware that I would be welcome, but I do not think that it would be a good idea.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“Not to imply any slight upon your reputation, or your character, of course. Mother is protective, but I know that you would take care of me. It’s only that I must think carefully about how it would look. Your residence is not in the most reputable location.”

“You say that you are not speaking against me, and I may well believe that. If only because they don’t sound like your words at all.” David knows his tone is too curt, and he sees Roxanne flinch slightly at the words. It is infuriating to hear what she says, and even worse to recognize that it may not wholly be due to any poison the boy could have whispered to her. He knows that he does not live in the part of town considered wholly safe- certainly nowhere for a young, virtuous woman. A chaperone ought to be enough to overcome that, but high society functions in an entirely separate sphere from reality. But he can see through the veil of her words, and the knife unintentionally positioned there cuts him nonetheless. “Let me ask you a question, then, dearest niece. Did your other Uncle tell you that you ought to be so ashamed of me, that you cannot associate with me if you wish to be in polite company? If not, you ought to ask him that in your letter. And perhaps I will write one of my own, to demand the explanation he owes me for this behaviour and this ridiculous charade.”

“You know that I did not mean it like that!” Roxanne bursts out in protest, her fingers curled tight in the fabric of her dress. “I am not- I would never be ashamed of you, you’re family!”

“Your actions speak to the contrary,” David spits back. “If I had known you thought thusly of me, I would never have imposed my company upon you.”

“And I said I am not ashamed of you! I do not avoid your company, and it- I wish you would come here more often!” She is properly agitated now, enough that David feels a distinct surge of regret. Roxanne abandons her letter and stands abruptly.

“Roxanne-,”

“ _No_ ,” she cuts him off. David is shocked enough to remain silent, words dying in his throat. “I love you, Uncle. I do. You and Dirk may despise one another, but he has never told me to avoid you, or anything of the sort. The only warning he gave about visiting was that you were a busy man, and might not be able to make enough time for an extended stay.

“My desire to step into society and my refusal to visit you in London are not mutually exclusive, as you seem to think. And while I cannot further explain why I would want the company that my entire family seems to shun, I can say that I do not understand why you all seem to hate it so. But you aren’t truly curious about that.” She circles the room, her breathing quick and spots of color high in her pale, lightly freckled cheeks. David itches to stand up and fetch her some tea, or even a small dose of spirits; she looks close to hysteria, or fainting, or both. Despite his many dalliances, David has never been adept at reading the emotions of the fairer sex. Or of his own, if he’s honest.

“I would not come to visit, even if the invitation were offered, because I do not want to appear as a caricature in your latest work not a fortnight after I left.”

“I don’t understand.” The words have lost his usual flat, nearly sardonic tone; David would be ashamed at how bare he sounds, were he addressing anyone else. But Roxanne’s reasoning is nothing he would have considered. It lacks logic entirely.

“Mother refuses to speak of it, Dirk refuses to speak of it, and you are seldom here to _ask_ about it! I may not be in town to see your plays, Uncle, but I do hear of their contents, and they are not at all flattering. And I may be young, but I am not a fool. I know that you enjoy satire, and I also know that whenever an argument occurs between you and any other member of this family, you are quick to paint an unflattering picture of them in your next work. Even Mother features, at times. I suppose I’ve simply been fortunate to never been on the receiving end of your ire.”

“I would never-,”

“And yet you have!” She exclaims, fixing him with a look eerily reminiscent of not her mother, but her grandmother. David remains silent, unable to meet her gaze. He hears more than sees her take a breath to try and compose herself. “I- apologize. For being so excitable. I spoke out of turn. I will see you at dinner, Uncle; I think I ought to retire to my room to finish this.”

David finds that he has nothing to say in response to that. He simply watches her gather up her ink bottle, quill, and paper, her hands shaking slightly. David has the strange feeling that the ground is being moved under his feet- a sensation usually reserved for when he is too deep in his cups. He resolves to seek his niece out after supper to make amends, and prescribe her the requisite platitudes and reassurances.

He only hopes that it will be enough.

 


	2. In Which David Tragically Discovers What His Brother's Happiness Looks Like

Speaking with Roxanne had been far easier than he had expected; she is a girl with a naturally sunny disposition, uninclined to hold grudges. It is a gift that David thinks the rest of family sorely needs. A few words to her after dinner, and she was embracing him as tenderly as she did when she was younger and more exuberant, and he more open with his affections. Thankfully she does not press the issue that they fought about, and David knows better than to push his luck by reiterating their points.

She remains cordial with him over the next few days, as he struggles to compose a suitable letter to the boy, but no more than that. He dares not ask her for advice, or to suggest that she mention him in her next missive. And to ask Rosalind would be inviting disaster upon himself. It is all too easy to conjure her derisive, snide voice, making pointed remarks about him running the boy off. All utter tripe, of course.

He sighs, drumming his fingers against the smooth wood of the desk. Words rarely fail him as they do now, and the evidence of it is piled to his left, sheets of paper only half-covered in writing, some of them with only a single sentence scrawled there. The surface itself is clear of all else; the opened and unopened letters that belonged to the boy are all gone, even the quill he used had been taken. The ink, David can only assume belongs to Rosalind, and it is the only thing that remains.

David picks his quill up once more, dips it into the ink, and begins his eighth attempt this afternoon. He has erred to the more formal, in hopes of appealing to the boy’s ridiculous obsession with courtesy. It is a way to gain his favour, something that David had never imagined a necessity. For all that the boy has featured in his plays, David does not initiate direct contact; it is a precedent set by the boy, and one which David was previously obliged to follow. He had been content to, with Rosalind around to give him the scant news there was.

_Col. Strider,_

_Rosalind and Roxanne both tell me that you are residing with your acquaintance, young Jacob English. You maintain a frequent correspondence with the both of them; clearly your parting was on amicable terms despite your fleeing in the night like a thief. Both your niece and elder sister miss you dearly, and so it is incumbent upon me to extend an invitation for you to return to the Lalonde estate. They would welcome you with open arms, I am quite sure. Roxanne has grown used to your company, and I believe that she suffers gravely without it. A single visit cannot be regarded as satisfactory when she has grown used to your constant presence._

_I have not informed them as to the reason for your sudden absence, and if it is shame that keeps you away, then I swear not to breathe a word of what occurred. I cannot even reference it obliquely, as much as I would enjoy to; the truth is that it would destroy my own credibility, and the theatre I have called my home would surely remove me from the premises. It is in no way truly polite society, but even that has limits to its tolerance for tales that are better suited to taverns and men deep in their cups._

_The first invitation I extended remains so._

_Sincerely,_

_D. Lalonde._

The note is shorter than he might like, but the longer letters become bitter and filled with vitriol; they cannot be sent, lest he risk worsening the boy’s tantrum. David is accustomed to weathering his anger, as it is naught but a temporary, fleeting thing, easy to brush aside. But he suspects that Rosalind and Roxanne would rather not incur it.

Still, he itches with the need to put pen to paper once more. One of the discarded options had turned to a scene that he intended to use in a new play; that sheet of paper is neatly folded and set to the side. A young man thrust into society, strings pulled this way and that like a poorly controlled marionette; servile duty and love pulling him in vastly different directions. It is the romantic tripe that David often turns his nose at, and so the male lead is flawed beyond measure, snivelling and indecisive. Yet that strays too far from the inspiration of his dearest brother, who has made the wrong choice and is stubbornly attached to it. David has been toying with the idea of the man losing both job and love; the boy’s story remains unfinished, yet there is something abjectly woeful about such an ending.

And more than that, Roxanne’s words have been rattling around his skull as of late. Accusations of libel and slander according to his mood- and, more affectingly, fear that she could ever be the target of such ire. She would never, of course; and David is reluctant to admit that his behaviour could have led her to believe so. Roxanne, despite showing the same traces of flightiness as her mother in her youth, is a grounded, intelligent young lady, even if David disagrees with her decisions. But he has no form of paternal authority over her, and Rosalind would resent any intercession as infringing upon her maternal power. And the boy- Dirk? David huffs out a laugh, the sound low and hoarse in the empty room. Dirk would have his head, if he believed that David were trying to lure his niece down the path of ignominy and disgrace.

“What a load of shite,” he mutters to himself. David folds the letter and lets the wax drip onto the seam to seal it properly. He lacks a proper seal himself, but he has long made use of a signet ring engraved with Sweet Brother, one of his more iconic characters. He debates whether or not he ought to simply borrow Rosalind’s, but he doubts that the boy will simply ignore the letter entirely due to the seal. He presses the face of his ring into the soft wax before he can change his mind; he will not write to the good Colonel under any form of deception, and if the boy refuses to respond, he will have to resort to another route. He is once again in Roxanne’s favour, and it would be a lesser blow to his pride to request she inform him as to his brother’s wellbeing than it would to ask Rosalind.

Once he has entrusted the missive to the first servant he encounters upon leaving the room, David returns to it and sinks down into the chair. It will be sent, and with strict instructions that Rosalind is not to see it, despite the lack of reference to the occurrences of the night prior to Dirk’s flight. Some of the previous drafts had been sordid in their detailing of it, and these David keeps for himself. He will burn them later.

His cheeks heat involuntarily as he thinks back upon it- his memories are hazy, the night a blur of sensations and building rage and frustration, the likes of which he rarely allows himself to experience. That damned kiss was where it had started, and _that_ is something David remembers with startling clarity. He remembers coming here upon hearing of Dirk’s residence, with no real reasoning but a desire to see his estranged brother. He had not been to town, and David thinks it natural, still, that he wonder why. David knows that there are still officers who hold a more permanent residence there, men whom he despises, but would be valuable connections for the boy.

If he closes his eyes, he can picture Dirk sitting here, ever the studious picture with piles of letters around him and his delicate fingers penning out a letter and with absolutely no desire to so much as look at David. There was a little divot in his brow, a sign of future wrinkles should he continue to frown at his papers so much. David had been taken aback, by the boy’s resemblance to their late father in that moment, yet the Colonel looked more at peace than the man ever had.

It had been a fragile, vulnerable thing, and David realized it only when he had taken the letter from his desk. He had been expecting the banalities of business and rank, or a formal declining of an invitation. He certainly had not been prepared for the words written in unbearably neat cursive that he would read, first silently and then aloud, nor for the red that flooded the boy’s cheeks, mottling them in anger and shame. A love letter, penned in flowery language more likely to be found in Rosalind’s novels than flowing from his brother’s quill. Even now, his stomach turns at the thought.

David has not thought of the altercation that ensued; he does not care to remember the boy’s angry, barbed words. But he recalls the surge of anger and frustration that welled up within him easily. The boy’s consistent refusal to acknowledge him, to honor their connection, has grated at him since Dirk entered society and decided he was better off leaving the entirety of his family behind. And yet, the boy had maintained contact with both Rosalind and Roxanne through letters, while David had simply returned to the estate one day to find the boy gone without a word.

And he had truly been a boy then, just upon the cusp of manhood and barely of age. When the boy had returned, decorated from war and representing everything David despised about the aristocracy, he was wholly unrecognizable. A scar upon his throat that makes David’s blood run cold to recollect, a new stiffness in his posture, wariness- and weariness- in his eyes. Yet most damning of all was the gulf that had opened between them without David’s knowledge; all the bitter words and slights came to a head on this very desk. It was the first time that the boy had verbally refused to acknowledge them as brothers, and David must confess that he had taken it poorly. It is more difficult than it ought to be, to reconcile the boy who constantly trailed after him, begging to see his characters in their roughest forms, with the cold shell of a man who barely spoke to him, let alone attended his plays despite being a point of inspiration. Given Roxanne’s words, David is willing to grant that he had perhaps crossed a line with his caricature of the boy, and yet even that failed to provoke the slightest response.

He presses the flat of his palm against the smooth wooden surface, and thinks of how Dirk’s mouth felt against his own. Lax with shock at first, the good Colonel surprised- and David himself had been, too; it was a bold, dangerous move, and not one he’d intended to make. His goal had been to draw the boy’s attention once more, perhaps garner further gleans of inspiration for the latest instalment of Sweet Brother and Hells’ Jeffrey. Instead, he had finally ignited the powder keg of his brother’s temper.

It had not been a terrible experience. Rather the opposite; it was exhilarating to see the boy’s control grow tenuous and then slip away entirely. He had been more assertive than expected, and David shudders to remember the feeling of their lengths pressing together, delicious heat and friction and _contact_ with a nigh unreachable man.

In one fell swoop, David had dragged his brother off his damnable high horse and down to the mire that the Colonel believed he stewed in. The final blow had not been struck until that night, though. With David deep in his cups, enough so to believe that the boy would heed the words meant to be a parting shot, spoken from kiss-swollen and kiss-loosened lips. And more than enough to infuriate him when he was left to wait in his rooms as the minutes whiled away. David has always despised being ignored, especially when avoidance has both the contempt and cowardice he knew to drive his brother’s.

He could not say that the invitation had been sincere. Nor could he say that he knew his intentions upon going to the boy’s rooms and demanding entry. David has no inclination to think upon his reasons, though. Goading the Colonel to anger is its own reward, yet kissing him into silence had been far sweeter a prize. His skin had been surprisingly soft under David’s hands, unexpectedly delicate and smattered with freckles that he hadn’t known existed. Uncharted terrain, as it were, though perhaps only to him. He wonders if it would have been better, had he taken the time to kiss along every inch of skin, leave marks that the boy would be unable to ignore come morning- if the boy would even have let him. Their coupling had not been a neat, pretty thing; David could be disinclined to the intricacies of foreplay when in that state, and he had been hungry for reaction, hungry to taste and touch and claim.

David is not proud that his hand strays between his legs to unlace his breeches and ease his smallclothes down; worse yet is how he takes himself in hand as he remembers long legs wrapping around his waist and tight heat for him to fuck into. His cock throbs, and he bites hard at his lower lip as he begins to pump it. Dirk had been spitting mad yet again, emotion alight in his eyes, but there had been so little between them. He remembers the gleam of his skin in the candlelight in lurid detail, the sound of his moans- muffled at first, yet sweet as he yielded himself to pleasure.

Heat coils in his gut and David desperately wishes he were able to remember Dirk’s face in better detail. But his memories are hazed over with pleasure and desire and far too much fucking whiskey. He works himself with one tight fist, his other hand pressed against his mouth to muffle the moans that tear out of his throat. The boy was close to begging for it by the end, had come undone with the barest of touches and all because of him. If he’d had the patience, David would not have allowed him release until he’d heard the pleas. They would have been a far cry from the boy’s usual cold tone, distant and impossible to glean the slightest hint of emotion from. No, they would have been interspersed with breathy moans, soft at first while he retained that odd streak of innocence that led to embarrassment about it, and then louder and more demanding as he finally gave into it.

His hand moves faster, the head of his cock slick and sloppy now as he slides from memory into pure fiction, imagining how the boy’s clever mouth would feel on him. The kiss had been stilted at first, but Dirk grew hungrier as it drew on, their tongues pressing together wetly. His lips had been the loveliest shade of pink afterwards, and David can nearly picture how they would look wrapped around his cock, swollen with use. That barbed silver tongue sliding along hard flesh, even dipping down to suck at his bollocks- dedicated to pleasing him rather than wounding him, no matter how much David may enjoy a challenge.

He shudders at the thought. Dirk beneath him yet again, pliant and submissive and wanting more. Wanting _him_. Coming to him instead, with the events of that night remembered in a more favourable, rosier hue. Perhaps they had instead indulged in wine together and made the mutual decision to retire together- perhaps they had met while David was in town instead, as often happens. His mind is only too happy to concoct fantasies in which this would occur, in which Dirk looks at him with open adoration once more. His brother playing the part of the young ingenue, faux coy and kissing down his body, or moaning out sweetly for more as David fucked him, refusing to let him come until he himself was spent and the boy was mad with pleasure and begging for it.

The pleasure builds and builds as he fucks into his fist, coherency slipping away and the line between what happened and what he wants to happen blurring dangerously. He does not remember if the boy ever cried out his name that night, but he finally comes as he imagines it, nearly too vivid to be anything but real. He does not call out Dirk’s name when he does; his lips are pressed tight together, one palm over his mouth to muffle any sounds.

He is gasping with the intensity of it as he sinks into the chair. David feels almost as if he is floating, untouchable by shame and guilt and the hideous swirl of emotions that threatened to consume him before. When he opens his eyes, as he must, the sight of his seed splattered on the desk makes his mouth turn in disgust.

 If the boy had done that after they met in tis room, he cleaned up thoroughly and not spoken a word. David does the same, fishing his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping off the wood. He forces himself to leave the room without a backwards glance. All there is left to do is to read the boy’s letter when it arrives, and welcome him when he returns.

David waits two days for his response, but it never comes, even when Roxanne sends and receives her own letters.

-

Arranging a visit to the English mansion proves infinitely more difficult than David could have imagined. He has long resigned himself to the fact that the boy will not respond to his letters, and that Rosalind refuses to make mention of him in her own shorter missives. Roxanne would be the easiest to ask, certainly, but for the first time, he feels as if he is on precarious footing with her. They have only spoken on affectionate terms since he made his apology and yet he finds himself strangely reluctant to press an obvious advantage. He simply cannot bring himself to use her like that.

Nor can he escort her to the grounds as he had thought; her mother has an acquaintance just four miles away, and so often accompanies her daughter. David would cherish the silence in the Lalonde household with both the ladies’ absence; in the past, he would have dedicated the time to penning a new play. But he finds the well of inspiration running dry now, and knows not how to replenish it. A night at taverns and pubs of increasing shabbiness often suits his tastes despite the consequences the next morning, and the drunken ramblings can be tidied up into something presentable. It is much like sifting through muck for a speck of gold.

But that cannot stand here. Now he must dedicate his time to planning how he can see his brother. He has not thought of what he will say to the boy or given much weight to the words he must craft in order to convince him to return. David has grown increasingly frustrated with refusal and rejection, and historically has only skirted along the edges of the path of logic.

And so he approaches the English abode armed with nothing but the knowledge that Rosalind and Roxanne are both engaged elsewhere, and that the house, as most great houses are wont to do, ought to be open to visitors. David is skilled at entering places he is unwelcome and simply bluffing to ensure that he receives an invitation to return, though this ought to be easier than sneaking into the opera sans ticket.

It is.

The carriage pulls into the long drive without being impeded, and David is met at the door by a stone-faced butler who does not ask for his calling card so much as he extends a hand in silent expectation of it. A poor decision, given that David ignores it entirely. If this visit is to fail, he would rather the boy have no knowledge of it. Instead, he offers up a fabrication entailing his touring of the countryside and a desire to see the famed halls. For a single excruciating second, he prepares to offer up a more palatable lie, but the servant finally nods once and strides off, presumably to fetch someone to actually escort him around the grounds.

David loiters in the hall, marking absolutely nothing to indicate that his brother is nearby or aware of his presence, but he does not have long to do so. Within minutes, a maid in a neat outfit with her hair severely pinned back enters the room. She curtsies, and David inclines his head in a short bow.

“Sir. I am afraid that the young master is currently out, but the house and garden do remain open to tour, if you are still inclined to see them.” David regards the maid with an impassive look; there is nothing to be done about that, though he supposes he can wait. The halls are certainly impressive, not as ostentatious as he would have expected. The trappings of wealth are present, but the estate itself holds very little in line of what he has heard of the former Lord English- an ornery bastard, by all accounts, with nothing in the way of taste and less in the way of financial acuity. His son, now estranged, is much the same. He hears that the young lord, although different in temperament, is as much a naïve fool as his uncle was a bloodthirsty wretch. David does not hold with the exchange of inane love letters, such as the one Dirk has no doubt sent the boy. It, too, had been gone from the study.

He will inform the boy that he ought to cease this foolishness, when he sees him next. A letter would have sufficed, if he could trust that it would be delivered, or that the boy would even open it.

“A tour of the grounds would be welcome, then,” he acquiesces. If the young Lord is out, then the Colonel is likely accompanying him, and they ought to return shortly. David intends to be here when they do, and he would rather not spend it looking at the frankly hideous décor.

“Then I shall have one of the groundskeepers escort you shortly.” The maid curtseys and makes her exit, leaving David alone in the room. The mounted and stuffed heads on walls are quality work, though he privately doubts that guests are put at ease by the mountain cat’s head that holds court here. Yet that manages to be far more inviting than the portrait of the late Lord English that hangs behind it; it is well painted, but the man looks as malevolent and cruel as the rumors described him when he was alive. The Baroness Condé was closely acquainted with him, if David recalls correctly, and that is more than enough to cast him in a terrible light.

There is very little of the younger Lord here, nothing to show that he has made this his home and nothing to give clues as to his character. David knows that he lived with his grandmother for quite some time in the colonies, and only returned here after her death. There may be connexions with the Baroness; certainly, David has heard rumors of a match with the Crocker heiress, but the young lady will be sorely disappointed.

“Master Lalonde.” A low voice interrupts his perusal of the room. David turns despite being startled, and nods at the man. “I ‘ear you’d like t’walk the grounds?”

“I would, yes. I have been informed that they are quite beautiful,” he replies, and it is terribly easy to slip into old, trained manners, uncomfortable as they may be. “One can scarcely mention the name ‘English’ without a veritable deluge of praise for their delights.”

“The shooting is fair good as well, though I’m afraid ‘tisn’t th’ season fer it. Though there are several deep ponds on the grounds fer fishin’ if that catches yer fancy, they’ve got nice, fat trout in ‘em. Lord English is very fond of the outdoors,” the man explains as he ushers David through the hall, and the doors leading towards the gardens.

“Is he about the grounds today, then?” David ventures, hands tucked into the pockets of his jackets. Though it is sunny, a rare occurrence on its own, the day is crisp enough for him to need it yet.

“Out ridin’, an’ I wager ‘e’ll be out of doors ‘til the sun goes down. If you wish to meet him, it’s best t’write ahead.” David notes that there is no mention of the boy, or of any guest, but the man speaks of his master with surprising fondness.

“I ought to have tried that, but I feared that he would not answer. My younger brother has some acquaintance with him, you see, and I must admit that I have observed him to be lax with his correspondence.”

David must admit that the gardens are breath-taking; an indulgence he suspects was maintained by someone other than the late Lord. The groundskeeper leads him down a neat, white gravel path that crunches pleasantly beneath their feet, through a section that is thick with the scent of flowers. They bloom bright against the lush green.

“He’s nae much fer letters,” the keeper admits with a laugh. Disappointingly enough, he does not ask who David’s brother is, and offers no insight as to any male friends the man has. “Even if he receives boatloads of ‘em. His nan, bless her soul, wasnae much better about it. Forgetful, if you catch m’drift.”

“I cannot say that I knew her well- or at all,” David replies, turning his head at a flash of movement to his left. It is nothing but a gardener dutifully tending to the hedges. “But I have never heard anyone speak ill of her. No one reputable,” he amends. The Baroness Condé certainly had not bothered to keep the censure of the late Lady quiet.

The groundskeeper gives him a knowing smile. “Aye, I’ll wager you haven’t. She was a good soul, died too young. But that’s always the way, eh?”

“So it is. The estate passed to the Lord, after her, then? I was always under the impression that the current master was his heir, not hers.”

“Oh, aye, but there were details ‘round it, since she died when he wasnae of age yet. I couldn’t tell the exact procedures of it, but what had happened was the Lord been foaming at the mouth for somethin’ down South instead of up North, an’ he took the chance to get it when he could. Didnae let go ‘til he died, either, and a nasty piece of work he was. Now I don’t bear speakin’ ill of the dead, it’s un-Christian, but that man was a devil if there ever was one.”

“And him, I’ve not heard a single good thing about,” David says wryly.

“Rightly so,” the groundskeeper replies, his voice firm.

That concludes much of the conversation, with David reluctant to push his luck and enquire as to the whereabouts of his brother. He does make the attempt with subtle questions on the frequency of visits, or if the young Lord ever has much company, but the answers are vague and name no specifics. The keeper is clearly fond of his master- always an encouraging sign as to someone’s character. David finds himself grudgingly approving of the picture the other man paints for him, of a youth that has slowly grown into his title, inclined to be kind, though trusting almost to a fault. The only questionable information he learns is the boy’s relationship with the young lady Crocker, who is heiress to the Baroness’ holdings. Yet even that he cannot truly protest; Roxanne has been writing her for years now, and by all accounts the two are quite close. Unsurprising, really. If there were anyone truly invulnerable to the slight of associating with their family, even in their worst days, it would be a Crocker. He ought to ask her how the two of them were introduced. He ought to have posed the question when she had first mentioned a new acquaintance.

David tunes out the groundskeeper’s explanations of particular features, bits of history about the fountains that he truly could not force himself to care a single whit about. The sole redeeming feature of this trip has proven to be the walk itself; it has been far too long since he was truly out of doors, and the air in town is often stale and clogged with the scent of the city.

He is about to turn to the keeper and request that they return to the main house, upon the pretext of having arrangements to dine elsewhere, when he sees them.

They are both on horseback, clearly en route to the stables that the groundskeeper had pointed out not a half hour ago. David opens his mouth to call out and hail them down; he knows that his companion will not stop him. It is considered good etiquette to greet the owner of the estate being visited, after all.

Yet there is something that makes the words wither and die in his throat as he watches them. Dirk in profile, dismounting his horse in a swift and elegant motion, while his companion lands firmly on his feet. Jacob English’s smile is wide and beaming, effortlessly happy in a way that makes David’s stomach turn in contempt. But it is the way the boy looks at him that is truly astonishing. His expression is oddly soft, his lips turned up in a smile that David cannot remember seeing. There is no weight of responsibility upon him here; in fact, there is very little of the Colonel present at all. David would not say that he knows his brother well, only well enough, but it is difficult to reconcile this with the boy that he does know, cold and distant.

What has Jacob English done to earn this trust and the disgustingly open adoration? What has Jacob English _done_ to make David’s brother look at him like that, when the boy cannot even show affection to his own family? Or admit that he has a family, in this case? What has Jacob _bloody_ English done to be the man that Dirk would flee to when he has nowhere else to go?

David does not attempt to get their attention, nor does he register much of the groundskeeper’s comments on their relationship. He does not get the sense that the man thinks it overt or improper- the boy has some sense left in his head, it seems. But he begs off the rest of the tour, eager to return to his rooms and pour himself as much whisky as he can manage to pry from Rosalind’s claws. Ignoring the fact that such overindulgence for precisely the same reason is what led to this entire situation, of course. David is a man to mock denial and facetiousness, and those are both qualities that he saw in his brother’s character. He had left, and the boy had turned into a despicably different person.

Yet, he finds himself clinging to the tattered remains of both those things. He would rather not believe what he has seen; he would rather not think of the boy remaining here under the beneficence of the English household during the day, and getting fucked into the sheets come nightfall. The thought leaves a bitter, angry taste that burns in the back of his throat. The prostitution of the rich- it would be an interesting line in a play, if he felt remotely inclined to make use of it. It would not be a difficult concept to capitalize on, nor a novel one; there have been many scathing critiques of hypocrisies abundant in the upper echelons of society before, and there will be many more in the future, David is certain. That is the only reason why he ought not to write on it.

David keeps his eyes closed to the world throughout the entire carriage ride returning to the Lalonde estate, but it does not help banish the image of that soft, open look on the boy’s face. Nor does it get rid of the strange twist of longing he feels at it.


	3. In Which David Argues With His Sister While Getting Drunk, Which Is Never A Good Idea

“I hear you paid a visit to the young Lord English,” is the first thing that greets him when he returns, his sister unbearably smug. His mood, already foul at being thwarted so, blackens further, and he gives her a baleful look.

“You listen to far too much gossip,” he responds, ignoring the cup of cooling tea in its saucer. It still manages to look condescending. Rosalind’s sources may be formidable, but David is aware that he was, perhaps, not as discreet as he ought to be. But it is deliberate, rather than careless- there is no doubt that the boy will turn up once more at the Lalonde doorstep, dancing around the crux of the matter because he’s far too much of a coward to say it outright.

“You insult me. Deductive reasoning, rather than gossip, is what led me to that conclusion,” she says. Rosalind sips her tea, unruffled as ever. “I must confess that you lasted longer than even my most generous estimations, before you barged over there to demand to see him.”

“Now, deductive reasoning and plain common sense ought to tell you that I have never once demanded to see our idiot brother.” He is not facing Rosalind as he says it, instead busying himself fetching the crystal decanter of whisky that sits on a small table. He pours himself a glass, careful and deliberate.

“Not in as many words, no,” Rosalind admits, but in the careless sort of way that never fails to make David wary. “But you do an awful lot to obtain his attention.”

“In case it has escaped your notice, sister dear,” David drawls out, settling down in an indolent sprawl. “I am rather well-known. In this land of ours, and in the Continent. Despite his avoidance, the good Colonel would find it incredibly difficult to ignore me entirely. As would anyone else, even simply based on hearsay.”

“You are an intrinsic mechanism in all the rumor mills.” Rosalind matches his lazy tone, even if she judiciously adds more wine to her glass. “I fear they would not turn with such alacrity and productivity, if you were to abandon them to other pursuits.”

“Aye, they’re in desperate need of a firm hand to tend them, and soft lips to whisper tidings into the air for them to carry.” He takes a sip, letting it burn the back of his throat.

“Far better than slashing at them and challenging them to battle.”

“I never claimed that chivalry was alive; and if it were, I would kill it stone-dead with whatever means I had at the time. Someone needs to put that poor concept out of its misery, it is but a shell of its former self,” David shakes his head mournfully. “Shall we drink to it?”

“I was not aware that you so deeply mourned its slow, straggling demise. But I must admit that a clean death is better than none at all. It is one of the few precepts of chivalry that has evolved well to suit the times, don’t you think? ‘Tis a shame that fraternal love has fallen by the wayside.” Ah, there it is. David simply raises an eyebrow at his sister; he would rather have returned before she did so as to avoid her snide, barbed words, and yet he must endure them. It is little wonder that the boy can be so cruel, when he has his elder sister to thank for it.

“Fraternal love, too, must change as the years go by. I believe that many brothers hold each other in great love and esteem, yet familial circumstances must also be taken into consideration. Not all brothers must love each other dearly; with some, distance is the best option,” David looks down at his drink rather than at Rosalind; the whisky is far less accusing. And less likely to belabour the point.

“And what of love between a brother and sister?” Alas, the liquor cannot stifle Rosalind’s voice.

“Now, that usually entails some sort of protection granted to the sister by the brother, and yet in some cases, the sister is the more dangerous of the two and is more than capable of caring for herself. Whoever coined you the fairer sex was a fool of the highest calibre, and I am certain one look from you would have killed him on the spot,” he concludes, finally flicking his eyes up to meet his sister’s sardonic smile.

“Nonsense. We’re far too fragile to commit such terrible crimes, brother dear. I would faint at the sight of blood, or of his face turning a fascinating shade of green from the poison I may slip into his wine. Not that I would be knowledgeable about that sort of thing to begin with.” A demure smile plays across her face, and David is viscerally reminded that his sister can still play the part of a noblewoman, despite her eschewing the role.

“I distinctly remember a childhood fancy of witchcraft, Ms. Lalonde,” he retorts. It is yet another topic that David has poked fun at, though he has been careful not to be too direct in any accusations. They may live in civilized times, but such rumors are too difficult to control- and Rosalind would have his manhood should she catch a single murmur.

“Your recollections are hardly a credible source,” she sniffs, predictably enough. “And I think that your own obsession with taxidermy was equally concerning. Mother always urged you to go hunting because she thought you might turn your attention to human prey.”

David wrinkles his nose, genuinely disgusted. “Not all of us were titillated by tales of murder, mayhem, and the occasional cannibal from the colonies, Rosalind. You knew as well as I that I never once caught anything on those trips.”

“Such a shame, too. I do enjoy venison.” Rosalind laughs quietly, and drains the rest of her tea. Foolishly, David waits for her to rise, and declare their little tête-à-tête over. It only takes a second for that notion to be dashed to the ground when she continues speaking. “But I must admit that I did not understand her intentions until I had a child myself.”

David is silent; this has the air of yet another of her monologues. He treasures what memories he has of their mother, though David is willing to admit that they have been colored rose by nostalgia and time. He rarely thinks of her these days, and their father, he dwells on even less.

“I am not certain _I_ am the best recipient for a lecture on parenting, Rosalind. I hear that is the kind of things mother teach their daughters, not sisters their brothers,” he says. David knows that his tone is too sharp, too acerbic, for Rosalind to do anything other than pounce on that perceived weakness.

“I believe that you could benefit from it. Certainly, we should have spoken on the matter sooner.” Her tone grows pointed, and David closes his eyes, slouching lower in his chair.

“Rosalind, please. The subject would be only done justice in one of your interminable novels. My chosen mode of entertainment is more immediate, and forges a more direct connection with the audience. Perhaps if you wished to turn it into a pantomime, I would be more inclined to pay attention,” he deadpans, though he knows that the jest will not distract her sufficiently. Rosalind is ever so single-minded, like a hound that has caught the scent of wounded prey.

“No, David.” Her voice is unusually severe now. “I know that you and your brother have had your difficulties, but surely you must know how much of that stems from the way you treat him.”

“Sister, this is not the same as the maternal instinct you seem to be attempting to teach me. The Colonel and I are both men grown, and we do not need you meddling in our affairs.”

“Meddling is _precisely_ what the two of you require, and you would not protest it so if you did not agree with me,” she replies, her tone insufferable and all-knowing. David has made no promises to his niece regarding the subject matter of his plays, but he is certain that if she knew her mother as he does, she would understand why those twisted reflections make their way into his work. However, he is entirely unwilling to risk further ire by attempting to use this to justify himself.

“How many times must I tell you that the lack of any relationship the Colonel and I have is nothing to do with you? You seem to take it as some kind of personal failing, and yet there is none. Despite the values we adulate, sister dearest, not everyone is capable of loving and cherishing every person they happen to meet, particularly ones they disagree with,” he says, careful to keep his voice as even as he can make it. David may not be a gentleman, but he can possess the restraint of one when the situation requires it. Yet, he knows that the control is tenuous at best. How the boy manages not to spit in the face of every self-righteous, meddling fool that high society has to offer, David does not know.

“I simply think that you are too eager to find fault within him.” Rosalind’s words are unassuming, until the reality of them sinks in, and it is all David can do not to laugh.

“I, find fault in him? Sister, please. Surely, you jest,” he exclaims. The whisky has finally done its job and gone to his head, which now buzzes pleasantly. It is a welcome counterpoint to the troubled waters of conversation that his sister seems determined to steer them into. “They are glaringly obvious and begging to be pointed at, for one. And secondly, the boy is far too sensitive about that sort of thing. He needs to have thicker skin, do you not agree?”

“What you fail to realize, brother dear, simply is that thicker skin is not the solution to all his problems.”

“I believe that it would be an excellent start, though such issues as his bland character and lack of faith cannot hope to be resolved by it,” David muses. There is still something bitter and ugly in his chest, and he speaks thoughtlessly, spurred on by the memory of that damned smile directed at English. His fingers curl tighter around his glass- tragically empty.

The room surges forward as he stands abruptly, intent on refilling it. He would drink from the bottle, if it would not spur yet another lecture.

“With guidance, _I_ believe that he could become even more of an admirable young man than he currently is,” Rosalind says, louder than is necessary. He can hear the smugness in her tone, dripping off every word. The implication that he was not there to shape the boy into ‘an admirable young man’ stings more than it ought to. He had never wanted children, and had ignored responsibilities to both the boy and Roxanne accordingly. Roxanne, at least, has not sunk to become everything he despises to spite him for it. She is an altogether sensible young lady.

“I am certain that he will find some old fool to take him on as a protégé, if he has not done so already. Perhaps he will warm their bed rather than the lovely Lord English’s, hm?” He turns to face her, desiring to catch her reaction to that. Rosalind, of course, must already know of their relationship, but surely she does not know the extent of it. She opens her mouth to speak, but David continues on, determined to cut her off. “Did you know that I caught the boy writing love letters to him? Terrible ones, at that. His prose leaves much to be desired for, and his use of metaphor is questionable at best. They were lines that could have been directly adapted from one of your more flowery writings when we were younger.”

Rosalind’s face twists in something akin to disgust and shame- though she has never worn self-loathing well. David knows her well enough to understand that it is not directed inwards, but outwards. He wishes it were for the Colonel.

“That may have been careless on his part, brother, but I can assure you that there is nothing wrong with an infatuation. Nor with an attachment of that kind. You may find eternal bachelorhood to your liking, but others often care for companionship through the years.” Spots of color rise on her cheeks as she speaks. “And I wish you to know this: I have done my utmost best to provide Dirk with the care he needed as a child, and with any guidance he may need now as an adult. You have no ground upon which to stand here and tell me that I have done otherwise.”

“And you have evidently proved yourself incapable of providing that guidance,” David does not spit back as he may be tempted to- no, he knows his sister well enough to be aware that seeming indifferent is truly the best defense from further barbs. Even after her little tirade, she is composing herself, assembling the icy mask that they all don variations of.

“Please, David,” Rosalind sighs, shaking her head in a composed façade of mourning. It reads as distinctly contemptuous to him. “As if you were even remotely inclined to step in. You dumped the boy in my lap and refused to have anything at all to do with him; it’s the height of hypocrisy that you begin to complain about how I raised my children. And yes, David, I _do_ consider him mine.”

“He is a man grown and you consider him a child, and that is precisely the issue. He needs no guidance now; he needs only to solve problems himself rather than fleeing to hide beneath your skirts- or beneath the sheets of another.”

“I was under the impression that you would have been pleased to see him go, and to know that you are the cause.”

“More of your baseless accusations, sister dear? The brat lacks to spine to name me himself.”

“Or he has enough etiquette not to.” She sounds disgustingly pleased with herself for a moment. “But there is very little need for pretense, David. I know you cannot live without being veiled in fifty-odd layers of self-deception, but do make the attempt to face the light of truth for a single minute. One look will not kill you.”

“Please, Rosalind,” he replies, deliberately mocking. He’s gratified to see her lips twitch downwards in a frown. “You ask too much of me- would you truly wish your own brother dead, immolated in the harsh light of being entirely correct about this?”

Her eyebrows knit together, and David feels a sliver of unease worm its way into his stomach as she turns to look at him. Her eyes, a shade off blue, bore into his own- uncharacteristically serious for their usual bickering.

“Do you truly believe that my accusations, as you call them, are baseless?” It is very much unlike her to ask for confirmation, and David finds himself frowning in return. He straightens in his seat, but pauses before he answers, at least seeming to give the matter due thought for her satisfaction.

Honesty is an option, as it always is, but the truth is rarely as black and white as Rosalind seems to believe. He cannot deny that _some_ part of him wished the boy gone, when he had just been born. It was yet another responsibility he wished to avoid. But nor can he say that he deliberately drove Dirk away with his actions some nights hence- he had not intended for the boy to flee in the night like a coward. He knows that his actions were no form of apology, but he had thought- well. David had thought that the boy would be able to see some form of sincerity in them, even if he could not guess at the truth.

“I do not think it necessary for him to spend so much time here without it being his primary residence,” is what he answers with, which is neither here nor there. “I believe that he ought to make up his mind, and find an estate of his own.”

“Of course,” Rose replies, in the tone which tells him that she believes absolutely none of what he said. It may have been factual, but even David knows it was a weak avoidance of the question. “You would rather he come visit you in town, perhaps even reside there as you do.”

“My preferences to that matter are irrelevant. If he is so intent on reclaiming the family’s good name and establishing a position in society, then he ought to be in town to do so.”

“I am well-aware of your aversion to being in ‘good society’,” Rosalind remarks dryly. “And I find his fixation on it somewhat concerning.”

“And so you agree with me.”

“I never said that,” she replies, because of course she must be a contrarian. “I think it a necessary evil, despite my own estrangement. Roxy will need introductions, acquaintances, all the trappings that come with it, if she wishes a fulfilling life here. Dirk needed it to provide some form of structure and order in his own life.”

“Are you suggesting that your parenting failed to afford sufficient rules for him to cling to?”

“I am _suggesting_ ,” ah, he has clearly hit a nerve here, “that it gave him stability and a life of his own.”

“There is nothing to escape,” David replies, almost venomously. “You make our circumstances out to be far worse than they are. More than that, you have always resented that I was charged with caring for the estate.”

“I resented that you fled as soon as the opportunity presented itself, and decided instead to while your time away gallivanting across the Continent and ruining your good name. No, there is no need for that face- I am more than aware that you would return, but I’ll have you recollect that it was half-drunk only to dote on and despise the boy in turn. What I resent, David, is that you consistently refused to even apologize for your absence, particularly when you were needed most.” Her eyes are bright now, cheeks flushed and lips pressed together in the same hard line.

“What you truly resent is that it was not _you_ , able to travel and do as you please. Your freedoms are limited by your sex-,”

“My freedoms were then limited by the lack of someone I could trust to run the household smoothly in my absence,” Rosalind fires back. “My sex, as you so delicately put it, would not have stopped me from doing as I pleased then. And I would have had the good sense to make at least an attempt at propriety during my journey.”

“The ‘family name’ that you so treasure was ruined long before I even set foot on the Continent. This, even you cannot blame me for, sister dearest.” David can feel the anger bubbling up inside him, the same sort of ugly fury he so rarely allows himself to acknowledge. But Rosalind knows precisely how to rub salt into any wound, festering and old though it may be; the two of them rarely fight these days, but it’s clear that they have not forgotten how.

“No, but I can blame you for leaving when you were needed most, and for returning only to torment a boy who has admired you since he could speak!”

“Do not pretend that he loves me!” David cries out before he can stop himself, matching his sister in volume. He catches himself before he can say more, letting out a long, ragged breath. His lapse has at least silenced Rosalind, though he cannot bring himself to look at her. “Do not pretend that he loves and admires me still, Rosalind. Please.”

“David.”

Somehow, the pity, the sympathy, in her tone stings the most. The adversarial mood has dissipated entirely, and with it the majority of his rage.

“I do not wish to speak of it. But you wish to hear me admit my part for the deterioration of our relationship, do you not? Would that I knew what I did, what was that leaden straw that broke the camel’s back.  I do not know, Rosalind, and yet you wish to lay all the blame upon me rather than consider that he too had to decide to hate me.”

It is not something he has spoken aloud before, and the admission burns in his mouth. He chases it with another swallow of whisky, jaw tense as he stares into the glass.

“You do not think that I turned him against you, somehow.” So careful, his sister is, about asking that. David shakes his head silently.

“No. Of course not. I have-,” he clears his throat, breaking off. “I am precisely intoxicated enough to tell you that I have the fullest confidence that you do not hate me. Despite our differences, despite an admittedly fraught history.”

“Good. I should hate to think that our disagreements would convince you that I feel anything less than affection for you. And admittedly exasperation. Occasionally pain, when you are particularly intransigent, or a line in your work particularly distasteful. The chocolate ganache disaster is the most notable of those.” She wrinkles her nose, and David laughs, the sound brittle but genuine. He takes another drink to fortify himself before he speaks again.

“I was not the refined artiste that I am now, and such things will not be referred to. If I wish to say shit, I will simply say it,” he glances at her, pausing yet again. The damned words are stuck in his throat yet again, and he must force them out. “Roxanne and I spoke several days ago.”

“You two are close, and you do care for her. Am I meant to find the fact that you converse at all unusual?” Rosalind raises an eyebrow at him, waiting. He catches the unspoken implication- that perhaps she ought to be surprised by it, given how sparsely he interacts with his brother. Though, if Rosalind knew the extent of their ‘interactions’, he suspects that he would find himself without lodging and family both.

“Often I suspect that you find the fact that I am capable of speaking English at all unusual.”

“Only occasionally, when you are deep in your cups. Do continue, as I expect that you wish to tell me what it is you spoke of,” she prompts him.

“Ah. Yes. It appears that she has taken umbrage to the content of much of my work, and fears that I may turn the sharp edge of the quill towards her.”

The silence in the room is damning, and David nearly flinches at it.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. And before you dare to accuse me of poisoning her against you, or some such nonsense, know that Roxanne holds great affection for you as her uncle,” Rosalind says this in such a firm, assured tone, that David cannot doubt her.

“And yet?” he asks, waiting for the last blow. He tips his chin up almost defiantly as he meets her gaze.

“And yet, she has read your plays. Attended some of them, when they were in reputable establishments and more palatable for young eyes and ears. Is it not improbable that she would recognize the unflattering inspiration and draw her own conclusions? Roxy is a dear child, but she is concerned about how you could damage her reputation. More than that, I do not think that she could take the perceived betrayal of her dear uncle. It would be most upsetting to a young lady, would it not?” Rosalind takes care to keep her voice smooth and even, and David is torn between hatred at what he thinks is patronization, and relief that she is even attempting that much. She rarely takes well to anyone insulting her daughter.

“It has never upset you.” As a defense, it is bare and flimsy, yet it is true.

“And that is because I know you, perhaps better than anyone else. An unfortunate truth for the both of us, at times, but one that stands firm. I know that you do not mean harm by it, and besides. I have been criticized for most of my life, for the choices that I have made. It is almost refreshing to see you poke fun at things many would not even consider. She knows that I find your caricatures amusing, just as she knows I occasionally assist in editing.” David finds himself nodding along to her response, and it eases the knot in his stomach slightly.

“But she and I have not had the chance to develop that understanding,” he admits with a sigh. “And yet I had not considered even the most oblique of references to her.”

“David.” Her tone has gentled further, and she walks over to place a hand on his arm, feather-light. A weight settles on his chest, heavy and foreboding. “It is not your treatment of me that brings her the most concern.”

“She says that he has not told her anything of me.”

“He would not. He already knows that it would do no good; he can see how you dote on her while you are here.”

“She says that we hate one another.”

Silence yawns wide in the wake of an answer.

“Rosalind, she says that we hate one another,” he repeats, his tone sharper and more insistent. He cannot help it- he does not want to help it. This has ever been the sore point between them, and despite his earlier avoidance, David is flaying himself open. Rosalind must be secretly delighted; he is finally asking for her opinion on this, finally inviting the conversation she has been attempting to have for years.

“What do you want me to say, David? You yourself have stated that he does not love you, that you cannot recognize the man that the boy has grown into. You may have been absent for much of his formative years, brother, but never doubt that you have shaped him more than I ever could. Your influence is not an overbearing one by any means, but it was enough.” It is almost admirable, that she manages to keep such an even tone while discussing this. Of course, it is all the more impressive that she is discussing it at all, let alone admitting some form of shortcoming. David does not think he is too cynical for believing it to be a distraction of sorts, a sacrifice to get him to admit his own. Though, he has already laid himself bare. He was a fool for thinking it would be enough, or that he would be able to speak more of it than he already has.

“Those are lovely words, sister, but they mean nothing. You have not denied it,” David states as flatly as he can manage. “All you have said is that I have shaped his adulthood.” And even that is difficult to believe, given the lack of interaction between them.

“I cannot speak to his feelings on the matter, David. Truly. I would not like to think that he despises you; surely there would be more evidence towards it if it were true. But he rarely shows his true feelings, even to me. Even to Roxanne, who he holds in the closest confidence.” She sighs, pausing here. The silence feels poised, as if there were guillotine hanging over his neck. “But I do not think that I could blame him, if he hated you. I could understand why he might.”

The blade falls, and David’s head tumbles with it.

“I see,” he says numbly.

“David-,”

“No, no. My brother loathes me enough to leave, and you condone it, if not actively encourage it.” David clenches his jaw, feeling the sudden urge to fling the glass against the wall, only to see it shatter.

“If you wish to see who engenders that hatred within him, brother, you need not look further than a mirror.”

“Rosalind, be silent.” He notes absently that his hands are shaking. Odd. His glass is empty, his throat is burning; he does not remember downing the rest of it.

“ _No_. I have not condoned it; if anything, I have been complicit in how you treated him! And yet you stand here and act as if it were all involuntary, as if you do not know what the consequences are?” Rosalind laughs, the sound high and brittle. The mood has shifted yet again, and David is still reeling, the floor unsteady beneath him and the room spinning violently around him. He cannot keep up. He has another drink instead. “Am I meant to believe that the decisions you made to paint increasingly unflattering pictures of him were uninformed? Involuntary? I highly doubt that someone was holding a blade to your throat in order to force you to write it!” Breathing hard, it appears that Rosalind is finally done.

David feels ill already; remembering snatches of conversation he had not heeded makes it far worse.

“I see that you do not even attempt to defend yourself,” Rosalind says, contemptuous.

David turns, opening his mouth to respond. Despite how ill at ease he feels, he’s angry enough to respond and hurt enough for it to even be honest. He can see Rosalind bracing for his retort, which sends a smug satisfaction through him. It is an ugly feeling.

“I have the best defense,” he begins, his words only slightly slurred. He takes a breath to continue- and promptly shoots the cat all over her carpet1. It is far more dignified than any response he could have composed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: He vomits on her shoes, basically. Yikes.


	4. In Which David Mopes, Flirts, And Forgets

Beyond that glimpse of the boy in English’s gardens, David does not see his brother again before he returns to town once more on both business and pleasure, the call of it near irresistible. Certainly, it is sweetened by the distinct _lack_ of his sister’s judging gaze, and Roxanne’s quiet sighs, and the blame that hovers distinctly above his head like that barbaric but admittedly amusing instrument of execution. Dirk had once commented that it was an elegant solution, though David had mocked him then for embracing their French heritage too closely.

He thinks, perhaps, he ought not to have said anything.

David knows that leaving the Lalonde estate is a poor choice, should he want to see the boy once more, and yet he finds that he cannot stay. His brother abhors town, but David doubts that he will even contemplate a visit to their sisters while he is in occupancy.  He cannot stand to remain in the country and idle his time away, and without the boy to antagonize and soothe the chafe of Rosalind’s constant, oppressive scrutiny, there is no point in staying. It has become immediately obvious that he will not be returning, made so by the lack of a response to his visit and his own missive. David is no soldier, but he knows when he is fighting a losing battle.

Not to mention the long silences between himself and Rosalind, the strange tension that has grown between them. David was not so foxed that he has forgotten the entirety of what had been said, and what he does not remember, he suspects that he is better off for.

David always feels lighter with each mile put between him and the Lalonde estate, and this is no exception. Yet the matter of the boy still lingers over him like a thundercloud. It fills him with an angry, restless energy, the kind that he knows is dangerous to indulge with the Colonel nearby. It is best burnt off in town, in the company of whoever he can find, and with a stout drink in his hand at night. And, come morning, by putting pen to paper in order to vent his frustrations.

After a full week in town, though, he is forced to admit that this is not a feasible solution.

His usual haunts and hells yield naught but boredom, and David increasingly feels as if he is wearing a rut in his frequent paths around town- one in which he is imprisoned. Perhaps this is why he ends up at a rout one evening, unpleasantly sober and itching for something novel, something that will suffice as a distraction from his familial troubles. He may not have received an invitation, but he knows that he will hardly be noticed as one face among many- even now, there are more pouring in from the curricles and even hackneys which file out as soon as their occupants have vacated and others taken their place.

The moment he steps in, he does. David finds himself swept along into the crowd, elbows digging into his sides and his boots trampled with little mercy for toes or cleanliness. Indeed, in their state, it is those that tread on them that end up worse off. There is dancing, if it can be classified as such with so little room to move and manoeuvre, and it bears scant resemblance to the more elegant forms David was taught as a child. The air is stifling hot, thick with the scent of sweat and smoke; though he notes that the open windows do little to mitigate it.

Navigating the throng of bodies without grievous bodily harm, David thinks, takes enough concentration that he considers staying. Locating the open doors that lead onto the terrace, already crowded with lingering gentlemen and ladies unwilling to return to the heat that awaits them indoors, is the deciding factor. There are drinks to be found, too, though David does not yet look for them; he will have to indulge himself while outside, for fear of spilling it.

He has not joined too late into the night, and yet the crowd is boisterous with laughter and good cheer. He catches whispers of flirtation as he wheels through the rooms, spun this way and that by the flow of people both reputable and suspect. David rarely enjoys the formal dances of the ballroom, though he has less opportunity to these days than he entertained in his youth, but he allows himself to indulge partners whose faces soon blur into the realm of the forgotten. It is diverting enough that he staves off slaking his thirst for close to an hour, when he becomes desperate enough to not only obtain a drink, but also to venture onto the terrace for the first time.

David inhales the cool air deeply, and it feels divine against his sweat-soaked skin. There is a certain visceral pleasure in this place, which by all accounts ought to be fully respectable. Not so for tonight, though David is certain that by noon tomorrow, it shall don the guise of a reputable residence once more.

Despite the temptation, he nurses his drink rather than downing the lot of it immediately- doing so would necessitate his returning to the house, and that is nigh unthinkable at the moment. He is not alone on the terrace, in any event, though most of the others seem content in their company. Audible conversation can take place here in this welcome refuge from the chaos, though paradoxically it is more difficult to discern and follow. David does not attempt to speak to anyone yet, focusing more on catching his breath and enjoying the brush of a cool breeze. Nevertheless, conversation comes to him not five minutes later, to be greeted by a flash of annoyance.

“I thought that I recognized you,” comes a smooth voice, complete in its self-assurance. David instantly recoils on his tone; it is one he associates with the smug and self-righteous. When he finally turns his attention to the young man speaking, his eyes are immediately drawn to a pair of pantaloons, tight enough to cling to shapely legs and a rather pleasing behind. Any assumptions he may have formed flee his mind almost immediately. “David Lalonde, yes?”

His tone shifts into something decidedly smug now, and all too knowing. David tears his eyes away to meet the speaker’s gaze, and he finds that any words die in his throat.

He nearly blurts out his brother’s name in shock, before logic and detail filters in, thankfully preventing such an episode. For while the man standing before him may bear a superficial resemblance to Dirk, the differences are equally striking. Where Dirk’s hair is a pale straw blonde, the speaker’s has a reddish hue, difficult to make out in the dimmer lighting outside. His lips are thinner, something about his smile suggesting an edge of deliberate cruelty and mirth derived from it. His eyes are darker, too; closer in color to David’s own than they are to Dirk’s, though they hold the same sort of cutting intelligence.

“Yes,” he finally manages, after a pause that he knows has dragged on far too long. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“You may call me Hal,” the youth says, drawing a step closer. His movements are less stiff than the Colonel’s but lacking in his easy grace. He extends a hand after a moment.

David shakes it, his grip firm as usual. Hal’s palm is soft against his own, his long fingers slim and devoid of callouses though they possess a surprising strength. A smile flitters briefly across his face.

“Then so I shall,” David acquiesces. He takes a slow sip of his drink, surveying the other. David has not yet achieved the level of infamy that he is often recognized in public, and so this Hal must clearly enjoy his work. Follow it closely. He is not ashamed to admit that his ego inflates slightly at the thought.

“I must admit that it was a surprise to find you here- or at all, come to think of it. I, and all your adoring followers, were under the impression that you had left town for the quiet of the countryside.” There is a definite note of mocking amusement in Hal’s voice, one that David bristles at.

“I doubt that I have managed to accrue quite as many devotees as you imply,” he answers, tone deliberately light. “It was mere coincidence that you found me here tonight- I must confess that I received no invitation, informal though I hear they are.”

“Nor did half those that are currently in attendance!” Hal laughs once, a sharp sound that echoes slightly. Too loud, yet no heads turn to observe the source or cause. “But that is rarely the nature of these parties, and so I find myself more drawn to them than any others.”

“It has been some time since I last attended one,” he admits. “The heat- I had forgotten how unpleasant it could be. Not to suggest that I did not indulge myself in dancing, simply that more breaks are needed than I would like.”

“I agree. And more to the matter, I am not particularly fond of such crowds. I find it a much more pleasant experience to spend a little time dancing, and more time outside in conversation. Or, simply outside. As a rule, I do not converse with those I find dull or uninteresting,” Hal finishes, and David senses that the metaphorical gauntlet has been thrown down. The thumb, bitten.

“Then it appears that I have been bestowed with quite the honor,” David retorts.

“With such low standards, my company is no compliment.”

“Then it must be a curse that I am forced to endure.”

“And yet, there is no blade to your throat, nor a pistol pressed to your temple.”

Deliberately, David lets his eyes drop to Hal’s crotch, then his legs.

“Not that I can see yet, in any event.”

Hal laughs again, this time a sound that David could think is genuine delight. “Yet, you say- and yet, it is. Perhaps I should offer you the chance of a different setting to prove your worth as a companion, if you wish to shine against a brighter background.”

“I think you’ll find that I am excellent company. They say I have a sharp wit and sharper tongue.”

“They say that you do some rather disgraceful things with that tongue; I would think it dull, rather than sharp.”

“I may not use it to cut, but I cannot say that I use it to soothe. Rather, I would rouse a state of excitement and build tension in the air.”

“You must be a gifted orator, then. A shame, since I am not experiencing any of the excitement or tension that you speak of.”

“People must often tell you that you are difficult, Hal.”

“They never say aloud that I am hard, but many dislike my company when I am not.”

“I cannot imagine why,” David says, dry. “It must be some terrible oversight on their part.”

“Oh, of course. A truly awful failing to appreciate good company when they stumble across it. I am a conversational gem, you know,” Hal even winks, surprisingly overt. But David is rarely a man of deliberate subtlety when it comes to actions rather than writing, and so he winks back. Casual, conspiratorial, and entirely unnoticed by the new and old faces that are milling about the terrace.

He does so enjoy pushing the boundaries, and from what little he knows of Hal, he can assume the other feels the same.

“You did mention a change of location, and I propose to take you up on it. Clearly, your conversational talents are wasted here, and I dearly wish to prove that mine are up to par. Consider your challenge taken, good sir.” David waits for the reply to his suggestion; pride would require the other to agree to it, but he suspects that interest will play the deciding role. Hal may not be easy to read, but David at least can tell that the man is intrigued.

“Very well, then. I do tire of this rout- shall I guide us to another, or have you had your fill of this type of merriment?” Hal asks, raising an eyebrow. His face remains entirely smooth as he reaches over to pluck David’s glass out of his hand, their fingers brushing briefly. He drains it and sets it down on the slight jut of the windowsill, where it balances perfectly.

“I would say that one is much like another, which is neither here nor there. I do believe my reputation for indulgence and decadence can precede me.”

“Not nearly as much as you seem to think; they say that the worst of it happened a decade ago when you were on the Continent. In comparison to that, you are now positively domesticated,” Hal continues, his gaze cutting to David, assessing. David knows that he is being baited- thanks to his dearest sister, he has more than enough experience in the matter-, but he simply allows a bland smile to curl his lips.

“I am more discerning in where I choose to spend my time, it is true. In youth, poor taste is allowed, if not actively encouraged. I am now comfortable enough to know better than to engage in every party found in a dilapidated tavern or pushing school which I stumble upon.” Granted, some of those rumors are still wildly exaggerated and propagated by none other than David’s own hand, if only because he happens to enjoy the scandal.

“An interesting way to state that you no longer find yourself engaging in anything particularly diverting,” Hal observes. David does not offer him his arm as they make their way around the building, skirting the sides to come to the front, where the carriages remain lined up and waiting.

“And you are such an authority on the enjoyable? Lingering on the terrace to accost a stranger is hardly the mark of someone having a good time,” David points out.

“Have you considered that our definitions of ‘enjoyable’ may be different?” Hal asks as he pauses in front of a hackney coach, breaking the conversation to speak briefly to the driver. He gets in, and gestures for David to follow him with the casual ease of someone who expects obedience.

Intrigued despite himself, David settles down just as the driver flicks the reins, sending the horses off at a brisk trot. Their shoes clack against the cobblestones, the carriage rattling slightly to add to the din.

“Where are you taking me?” David finally asks, abandoning the prior subject with ease. What he finds enjoyable may not wholly concern Hal- though he suspects that at least a portion of it will.

“To your grave, of course,” Hal answers without skipping a beat. “Early, perhaps, but many would call it well-deserved.”

“I rather think that being slaughtered in an alley by a youth would be a disappointment, to those who theorize over my death. Goodness knows they’ve nothing else to mull over- I certainly cannot say that I’ve thought of it as such.”

“No? But yet you have some idea or inclination of how it will happen.”

“I know how it is likely to happen, just as I know how others would think it likely to happen,” David replies, deliberately evasive. He nearly frowns before stopping himself- it is the type of answer that the Colonel would give, if he were in a mood to be particularly infuriating and pedantic. “And if you wished to murder me, announcing would have done no good.”

“It would have, if I had slipped something into your drink, or had you secured somehow,” Hal says flippantly. “And if I wanted to see you terrified, I suppose.”

“Tragically, I am not the type to quake in my boots at a fate that we all meet eventually. I would apologize for the disappointment, but I fear that it would not be sincere.”

“I at least appreciate that honesty,” he drawls out, lips curling into an amused smile. David can only just make out the shape of it. “But forgive me. I do not believe that you have ever apologized for anything, nor that you have a single sincere bone in your body.”

David frowns, stung. He wonders if it would hurt less, coming from one who bore no resemblance to his brother. But the words are remarkably assured, and it rankles that an erstwhile stranger would assume such knowledge about him, and be so confident in its correctness. Of course, he cannot let Hal know this.

“I believe that I displayed some signs of sincerity when I was younger, though I doubt I could recall the specifics, even if pressed,” he says instead, keeping his tone light.

“I don’t intend to force the occasions out of you under duress,” Hal replies, that edge of mocking amusement showing between his words. “As interesting an experiment as that may be, I do not possess the patience or the stomach for human suffering of that calibre. Particularly when it results in information that may well be false.”

“Do you realize that most people may find your opinions and casual mentions of torture disconcerting?”

“Of course. Are you going to suggest that I am fortunate, since you are not most people? If so, I’d rather you say something more interesting. I already know that you are not most people; your work speaks for itself to that account.” Hal drums his fingers lightly against his thigh, the pale fabric near glowing whenever they pass under a street lamp.

“Spoken by a true patron- in which case, may I say that I am delighted to receive your custom, and hope that you have been entertained in return?” David does not quite bat his eyelashes, but the facetiousness in his tone heavily implies it, achieving the same effect.

“Goodness. I feel as if I’ve just been solicited,” Hal remarks, with a  surprisingly delicate shudder. “But I suppose that your plays are enjoyable enough, for what they are.”

“And what would you say they are?” David prompts, raising an eyebrow. It is polite to ask, especially with his pride and livelihood on the line.

“Utter garbage,” Hal says immediately, and with great relish. He smiles like a shark that has caught the scent of blood, clearly having been waiting for that question.

David looks at him for a moment, and laughs.

The sound appears to both startle and offend Hal, but David is too busy in the throes of his mirth to make any sort of apology- or even consider one. He recovers within a minute to find Hal damn near pouting over at him.

“Apologies,” he says, his lips twitching in residual amusement. David feels quite breathless, and light, as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “Come, now! There is no need to look so piteous, Hal- I did not mean to offend, even if you did!”

“I hardly think that being laughed at is inoffensive,” Hal replies, evidently still displeased.

“Do not be so petulant, it doesn’t suit you at all. It’s- simply that very few who enjoy my plays call them garbage, or tripe, or hideous and near dangerous misrepresentations.”

“I’m certain that I did not say all of that,” he answers, though as an attempt at misdirection, it fails.

“No, but you did mean it, and- frankly, I am delighted. I wouldn’t say that they are terrible; some of what I write is quite good, you know, but I _would_ say that the characterization is deliberately poor and shallow, and that the plots often have gaping holes, and that the veiled criticism could frankly be more veiled, though I find that much of the audience still misses it entirely,” David gesticulates as he speaks, unsuccessful in curtailing the majority of his enthusiasm. He reckons that it has been too long since anyone genuinely interested has asked about his work- or called it ‘utter garbage’, for that matter. It is a strange thing, to find himself itching to tell another soul about how and why he writes, and what he thinks can be improved. It is even stranger to see that Hal is clearly interested, near hanging off every word, though he is attempting not to show it.

“Gaping holes is quite the accusation, when it comes to plot,” is all that Hal actually replies with.

“You need to improve your innuendo,” David tells him, entirely serious. “I am not sure if you actually are attempting any sort of subtlety here, but-,”

“If you would please fuck off, I would appreciate it,” Hal answers, equally serious. Silence reigns for a moment, before he sighs, and waves for David to continue. The concession, even if over a bluff, still feels oddly like a victory. “Go on, then. You’ll be hounding me if I do not listen, I’m sure.”

“I find it bold to assume that I know where to find you, at any given time. It would certainly be difficult to show up to a series of routs and simply hope to run into you- I am no strategist, you know, but that just seems terribly unsound.”

“It is, which is why I would expect you to do it.” The smile returns, along with the glint in his eye.

“Hm. Interesting, that you think you’ve caught me well and proper with naught but a half hour of conversation,” David muses aloud. “Is my persistence that notorious?”

“Perhaps it is. But I never said that I caught you with conversation,” Hal says, his voice dropping in volume so that it is only just audible over the noise of the carriage. The insinuation is just enough to bring heat to David’s gut, though not enough to make him ashamed. No, there are very few who are capable of that- and every single one of them share his blood. “For all that you speak of my unsubtlety, Mr. Lalonde, I think that you could do to learn some of your own.”

Something twists unpleasantly in his chest at the way Hal says that, the way his lips shape David’s more formal title. It is said differently from Dirk’s cool indifference, and later his barely controlled temper, and yet David finds that he dislikes the odd, derisive lilt to it, for they accomplish the same effect. That, and the accusation of unsubtlety reminds him unpleasantly of Roxanne’s words- ones he thought he had easily put out of mind. It makes him wonder what Hal would say, if David were to ask if he knew of the Colonel, or of his sister.

“Then conversation was the pretext with which you approached me and enticed me here in the first place, despite any ulterior motives you may have. I do recall something about murder,” David says, and he is proud of how casually detached he sounds.

“Nonsense,” Hal tells him firmly. He is evidently disappointed with David’s lack of obvious reaction there. A curious fellow, to be testing and prodding him so. David is surprisingly unopposed to it; it seems more genuine and less patronizing than his sister’s admittedly well-intentioned meddling. It stems from a personal interest in David himself rather than his actions, the type of selfishness that he can understand and appreciate. “What would I do without your garbage to make me laugh?”

“Live a terribly dull and miserable life as a young member of the aristocracy, no doubt,” David answers easily.

“I think that I would at least get disowned by my family, thank you very much,” Hal wrinkles his nose. “I may not be overtly rebellious at the moment, but I think that I do well enough to cultivate a reputation as a known rake. A black sheep, perhaps. But as the fourth son, I suppose that it hardly matters- the most they could have expected was that I enter the clergy, and _that_ , I have no desire to even consider.”

“I can empathize with that. The holy men live a dull, austere life, or one of hypocrisy. And neither of those are things that I can abide. I suspect that you’re much the same.”

“Precisely,” Hal says, and there’s a note of satisfaction in his voice. He leans forward, slipping a few coins into the palm of the driver as the carriage comes to a halt in front of a townhouse. “And it appears that we have arrived.”

David exits the coach first, his eyebrows slightly raised. From what Hal had said, he had more expected to be a rundown inn near the reeking Thames. Yet it appears that he is not so far removed from his family to employ their money to keep a residence such as this. The hackney continues on, and David follows his erstwhile companion into the house.

“My aunt, bless her soul, left this to me upon her death. It made me the envy of my brothers, and I daresay that they would have accused me of forging her will to obtain it, if they had not known better,” Hal offers by way of explanation. “And do remove your shoes- they’re filthy and the floors were just cleaned this morning.”

David notes that Hal keeps his own boots on as he strides in, even as he bends to remove his own. After a moment’s thought and no direction from his host, he simply leaves them by the door. It is a strange custom, and the floors are cold beneath his feet.

He emerges into the sitting room, squinting into the gloom to follow along the hallway until he reaches it. Hal is already there, the fireplace now lit and crackling, with candles providing the rest of the illumination. It is surprisingly homely, if smaller and more impersonal than he had expected.

He sits on the couch upon Hal’s gesture, accepting the drink that’s pressed into his hand by clever fingers. With the light like this, the reddish tint in Hal’s hair is ever more prominent, coppery where it catches the dancing firelight.

“You’re quite the host,” David remarks as he takes a sip. Hal does not pour a drink for himself, though he does sit close enough that David would be concerned, if the residence did not appear to be empty.

“I do try my best. My mother instilled such an admirable sense of etiquette in me. She’ll be rolling in her grave, I’m sure.” Hal crosses his legs, and David admires the way the cloth pulls tight against his thigh, though he does not move just yet.

“I think you mean ‘is rolling in her grave’,” David corrects.

“Oh, no. She is very much alive.” Hal smirks. “For all that she professes to love me, and perhaps even does, she prefers to not have any news of me. And so I have learned to be remarkably discreet.”

“That would explain why I have never noticed you in any of my audiences.”

“Likely so. I very rarely attempt to purchase seats in the front, though I do frequent the boxes at the more reputable theaters that make the mistake of allowing you use of their stages.”

“Now that’s simply cruel of you to say, good sir,” David chuckles. He does not quite land on the outrage, however false, that he was aiming for. “May I ask what made you approach me now? Regardless of whether I noticed you in the audience or not, you could easily have found me before.”

“From what I heard, you were a busy man. And frankly, I always had the sense that you were a permanent fixture here. While the opportunity never presented itself in the past, I still possessed a certainty that it would. And then you vanished for nearly a month- to the country, if I am remembering your relations correctly-, and returned without your characteristic flair. I suppose that you could make the case that I was spurred on by that absence, but it would be disingenuous to claim that I have actively been looking for you since. It was truly a surprise to see you tonight, yet a chance that I could not let slip through my fingers,” Hal concludes. His words still lack hesitance, but they show thought, as if this is a speech he has practiced- and perhaps he did; David knows that his question had been obvious.

“I have no intention of interrogating you further on the case,” David reassures him. “I was simply wondering. Most who wish to speak to me at least write a letter.”

“A letter? Gracious, no. I wouldn’t dream of it. For one, I cannot imagine that you keep up your correspondence at all. Secondly, even if you did, I hardly think that one letter of admiration would be distinguishable from another, despite the fact that I would have written a deceitfully flattering one to you. It would be sweet enough that your fingers would taste of sugar after opening the envelope, I can assure you.”

“Such quaint imagery. Is this about suggesting that I work with you instead, assist with producing some writing of yours?”

“Do you often get approached with that request?”

“Hardly. My name may be known, but it is not necessarily one that playwrights wish to see or hear alongside theirs. If not due to some personal vendetta, then due to the fact that they prefer to make entertainment that is more palatable, easier to digest and amuse without being cutting.”

“I can imagine that you’re a nightmare to work with, and one I would rather not subject myself to.” David tries not to be offended by that slight; he knows that he is largely regarded as a difficult, contrary man, good company in drinking and jesting, but not so for business, even if he has quite the head for it. But very few have outright rejected the possibility like this- in fact, it only amounts to his brother. He dislikes the reminder.

“Have you been listening to the gossip about me, then? Because I can assure you that I do my utmost best to accommodate those I deem important.”

“I could say the same of myself,” Hal answers easily. “But by my reckoning, it is more difficult to earn my esteem than it is yours.”

“And yet you are the one who wants to be in my good graces, while I cannot say that I feel particularly strongly about yours,” David says, casual as he takes another sip of his drink. He keeps his eyes trained on Hal’s face, cataloguing his reactions- or infuriating lack thereof.

“I would have thought you were under the impression that I had no good graces. Clearly, I have misled you most grievously,” is what Hal tells him instead. A smile plays with the corners of his mouth, never truly blossoming.

“I shall claim damages for that in due time,” David promises. “But rest assured, I am not wholly repulsed by you, which is an excellent beginning.”

“An excellent beginning, hm?” Hal sidles closer. David has to tamp down on a smile; it’s terribly endearing, how easily his façade of apathy crumbles away. He has not met anyone so compelling in quite some time; the last connection like this had been a long time ago during a visit to Paris. David does not often think of the two people he met during his extended stay on the Continent, if only to avoid recalling that neither of them wished to stay with him in the end.

“I would not let it inflate your ego overly much. There’s always room for improvement,” David warns him. Hal simply laughs, and does what David suspects he has been building to all night.

He plucks the glass out of David’s hand once more and drains it, his head tipped back to reveal the exquisite column of his throat. It would look rather pretty with a few bruises as decoration, and he ventures the thought in a low murmur.

“Awfully forward of you, Mr. Lalonde,” is all he Hal says in response, the words low and his breath hot against the shell of David’s ear. They are too close for any semblance of propriety, but they are in an empty house, and propriety is not a thing that David particularly cares for.

“Hm. I think that you are the bolder of the two of us,” David muses aloud. He leans his head against the back of the sofa, his legs slightly spread. His eyes close; he is comfortable in a way that he has not been since that disastrous night, when he had the Colonel in his arms. But David does not want to think of that now, he does not want to think of it ever, and Hal is more than welcome to provide a distraction, if that is what is he wishes.

Hal is here, Hal sought him out, Hal is a warm weight sliding into his lap and a damp press against his mouth, and it is all too easy to put any thoughts of his family, especially the boy, out of his head, and let the encounter turn towards the purely physical. David does not think of anything but the young man seated in his lap and deftly unlacing his breeches.

He does not promise to himself that he will keep his eyes closed; it is an impossibility for one, and he certainly has no desire to field any questions about it from his current paramour. But nor does he stop Hal from sliding to his knees in front of him, hands on his thighs and lips skirting the length of his cock, his pink tongue darting out to coax the flesh to stiffen. There is no doubt that he is skilled at it, though he protests with the threatening graze of teeth when David reaches out automatically to sink fingers into his hair, finding himself wondering how it will feel, how he would mewl if David were to pull. It draws a curse out of him, and David presses his palms flat against the rough upholstery, letting out a shaky breath.

If the room were not so brightly lit, perhaps he could pretend. But he is not in the business of pretense, and the smug, teasing glint in Hal’s eyes is like nothing he would have anticipated as those lips wrap around him and swallow him whole. He curses Hal’s devilishly talented tongue, even as he asks where he learned this, in the same teasing, derisive way he suspects could be their usual manner.

“I’m sure you’d love to have that information,” is the answer he gets, and any further details are lost, his focus shattered as Hal deliberately presses the blunt end of his nail into the weeping slit of his cock, just enough to hurt- and hurt _good_. It is a clear sign that David should simply close his mouth and cease asking questions, and he complies with the latter, if not the former.

It is far easier for David to simply run his mouth than remain silent altogether, and though he frequently gets told to remain silent in his daily life (admittedly only by his sister, and occasionally his brother), rarely does it happen that someone has the audacity to pause any excellent bagpiping, leaving David gasping and desperate, and instruct him calmly that he ought to stop speaking nonsense, if he wants to climax.

David gapes.

Deliberately, Hal strokes down his cock, his grip tight.

“You- you are being _fucking_ ridiculous,” he gets out.

“And _you_ are ruining the experience for me. Goodness, I may even need to fetch a handkerchief to shove into that mouth of yours, since you cannot seem to close it.” The irony of Hal saying this with lips wet and swollen with use- with his hand on David’s cock, in fact- is far from lost.

“I rather think that you’re the one ruining my experience at the moment,” David points out, as amicable as he can given the circumstances. “And,” he adds, glancing towards the front of Hal’s pantaloons, “I do believe that you’re enjoying this quite a lot despite your grievance.” To prove his point, he presses a foot against the bulge so intimately outlined there. Hal’s sharp inhale is immediately satisfying, even if it does nothing to ease the ache in his own loins.

“That- is not within the scope of inquiry.” The slightly strangled note of Hal’s voice is even better. David’s smirk grows wider, and he looks down at the man with hooded eyes.

“Fetch some oil- I assume you have it readily available to entertain the victim of your last seduction,” he finally says. Hal raises an eyebrow, though the staring contest and his defiance do not last long at all before he gets to his feet. For all that it ought to be a graceful gesture, the effect is ruined by a crack of the knee. An old injury, perhaps, but David thinks it more likely to be unforgiving floorboards.

“Bold of you to assume that I brought you here to seduce you, specifically,” Hal remarks, stepping behind the couch. David does not think much of it, nor does he bother turning to keep the other in his line of sight.

“Seduction or murder. I do believe you’ve reduced the human existence to its only component parts. And I certainly know which of the two that I prefer.”

“Kind of you to say. But I was under the assumption that seduction required something more substantial than a drink and a few minutes of conversation.”

“Let us not forget that you sat quite close to me- proximity is an important matter to note.”

“How medieval of you,” Hal says, much closer than he was before. He deposits a small bottle into David’s lap unceremoniously, before returning to straddle him. “It’s a very good thing that I am here to manage you properly, then.”

“You would not be the first to make the attempt, but you would be the first to succeed,” David tells him. “I am never inclined to listen to nonsensical orders.”

“Ah, but here is the difference, David.” Hal speaks as a teacher would to a student, even as he divests himself of his pants and smallclothes- at least down to his thighs. David takes the chance to smooth his hands up surprisingly soft skin, and then back, to grope at his soft rear. “As much as you think that respect is necessary for listening and obedience, I think that you are going to do what I say because there will be consequences otherwise. Well- just the one consequence, but I think it ought to suffice as motivation.”

“And what might that be? You lack the stomach for the cruelties I have in mind, and it would take no less than those to bring me to heel, as you seem so determined to. Torture is a gruesome art, you know,” David tells him, insolent as can be.

“At least you’re under no illusions as to how quickly you would crumble when faced with it.” The bottle is neatly plucked out of his lap, with Hal kneeling above him. Although David cannot see what is happening directly, he can observe the shift in Hal’s expression, his lips parting slightly and eyes closing for a second. Obligingly, he wraps a hand around Hal’s cock, feeling it throb at the touch.

“Sensitive,” he remarks. The youth hisses out a breath, eyes opening slightly to glare at him. David simply offers his most charming smile, and to his delight, there is a visible softening of Hal’s expression. “But I think that you would let me do whatever I wanted to you. I think that this is what you had in mind the entire time, perhaps even before you approached me, and I think that you would have waited however long it took to get me to do this. Fortunately for you, I also think that patience like that ought to be rewarded.”

David pauses, waiting for the inevitable denial, yet it does not come. Hal’s breaths are deep and uneven, hitching whenever David moves his hand.

“Mm. Still, I _am_ curious- what is this punishment you were considering?” His hand stills, fingers loosely curled around the base of his cock, and Hal damn near whimpers. The sound sends a thrill through him.

“Damn you,” he hisses out. There is a moment of silence, where he is clearly composing himself. It is interesting to watch him build that semblance of cold tranquillity, pull it over his face like a mask, albeit an imperfect one. Still, David finds that he mislikes it; yet another thing to blame his brother for. Instead of allowing Hal the courtesy of a respite, he swipes his thumb over the weeping slit of his cock, to make him gasp and squirm instead.

It is an excellent idea, until Hal’s dry hand wraps around his wrist and forcibly yanks it away.

“Stop- do you want an answer to your damn question, or not?”

“Someone is in a terrible mood, for all that their arse is full and their cock is wet.”

“And _someone_ is being a damned pain,” Hal grits out. Amused, David finally relents. The flush on his cheeks is a combination of irritation and arousal, his eyes sparking. Privately, David thinks that this suits him much better than the almost cruel composure he attempts to don. It is far more endearing. “Thank you. Now- the consequence is deceptively simple, I should think. For all that you’ve just gone on about my wanting you, the fact of the matter is that you want me. Badly enough to allow this with naught but a few words and looks. And the much vaunted proximity. Tell me, David, do you think that I’m fool enough to believe that it is _this_ easy to get you between the sheets? Because we both know that I am not. For whatever reason, you were mine from the moment you laid eyes on me and decided to continue that conversation- and if you will recall, you did propose we move elsewhere.

“There is no need to look so shocked. I will press you further for information after we are done here, though it may be more a confirmation of suspicions than anything else.” Having finally said his piece- and quite a large one, for someone three- no, likely still two- fingers deep-, Hal lets out a breath, and gives David a look that is nearly triumphant. It is a disgustingly smug expression, and one David takes a dislike to immediately.

“Your naivety is almost endearing,” David tells him instead, and he knows that the smile twisting his lips is cruel and contradictory to his statement. “But I am not in the business of spilling my secrets, simply because you have a prettier face and a prettier arse. If this is how you thought to earn my esteem, dear, I must say that you have severely miscalculated.”

Even before the words leave him, David knows that he has made a mistake. But that does not stop the vicious pleasure at provocation from rising within him, as he watches Hal’s expression shutter, grow cold. But it is not cold and remote, distant and untouchable as the boy’s would be in this position. He does not regard David with contempt, as if he is irrelevant; no, he looks at David with a growing rage that catches in his eyes and flares to life. For a moment, David believes that Hal will punch him- already, he tips his head back, awaiting the blow, the starburst of pain and then the iron-salt taste of blood trickling down his face. He knows that he deserves, it and yet it does not come.

“That would be a grave error on my part, but the assumption upon which you base this claim is false. You think that your esteem is of any value to me. But your esteem is of value to no one- in fact, some would say it is a detriment. I am willing to bet that they are even members of your own family,” Hal says, in a cool tone that is entirely at odds with the phantom knife David feels plunging into his gut. A wild stab in the dark, landing.

“You don’t know a thing about my family.” Even to him, the words sound hollow.

“No, but I know enough of you.” That smugness is beginning to creep into Hal’s voice now; clever, cruel thing that he is, he senses the weakness that David despises.

“Get off of me.”

“What-?”

“You heard what I said, Hal. Stand up, so I may leave.”

“No-,” he begins, and David looks up to see the shock written clear as day across his face. It ought to give him some kind of satisfaction on an instinctual level, and yet he is only exhausted. “I didn’t mean that you ought to simply get up and go like a coward simply because I have struck a nerve! And unknowingly, too!”

“Insulting a man’s relationship with his family is not unknowing!” David exclaims, making to stand anyway. He nearly topples Hal off him, but he cannot bring himself to be sorry as he yanks his smallclothes and breeches up.

“No, but it is unknowing when the man himself spends so much time slandering them! They are terrible people, are they not? Terrible and ridiculous, and if you think that is not the image you have deliberately painted, then you are wrong,” Hal is breathing heavily, having regained his balance, but the stubborn youth refuses to move. He plants the palm of his hand against David’s chest to prevent him from moving.

David barely registers the contact.

This conversation, yet again. Haunting his steps- first with his niece, then with his sister, and now with a man he does not even know. Perhaps it lurked in the silences between him and his brother, and perhaps he would have recognized it had he known what he knows now. Then again, perhaps he wouldn’t have.

“You cannot be serious,” Hal continues, slow and incredulous. “I knew that you were reckless, thoughtless even, but never with your work- your portrayals are based in fact, and you choose the facets of people you wish to display to get the best reaction, to make the boldest statement. You cannot seriously be saying that what you chose to say of your brother and sister was accidental. You are lucky that he is- that he has not sued for slander or libel!”

“You were going to say that I am lucky he is a coward, were you not?” David asks. His fingers curl into fists at his sides.

“And it is clearly something that runs in the family. Though I cannot imagine why you are defending him, when you are so ready to condemn me for speaking the truth! Or is it simply that you do not want to hear what I have to say?”

“Are you suggesting that I ought to stand silently and listen to you insult them?”

“I am suggesting that you ought to spur me on, as you do with all the rumors pertaining to them. Perhaps you could even spread a few about my own relations, if that would sweeten the pot.”

“That would only depend on who they were.”

“Ah- you require a personal vendetta of some kind to begin causing trouble. I was right to call you a coward just now, David, but I should have added ‘liar’ as well- no, not to me, nor to your adoring public, but to yourself.”

“You know nothing about me, just as you know nothing about my family,” David bites out. “And I would thank you not to stand there preaching to me as if you did.”

“Please. I knew about you before, though I could not speak to your character, but now I know enough to be able to do so. And more than that- I know what it is like. To have a difficult relationship with one’s family.” This alone would not be enough to give David pause, were it not for the shift in Hal’s manner that accompanies it. The way his shoulders rise defensively, the defiant set to his jaw as he meets David’s eyes. “Though I have never deceived myself as to the cause of it.”

“And you are not the cause of it?” David asks, crueller than is necessary. “No-,” he pauses, sighs. “I should not have lost my temper with you so.”

“That must have cost quite a lot for you to admit,” is all that Hal offers in return.

“More than ten shillings,” he sighs. There is still tension in the air, though it is more expectant, less antagonistic than he is used to. “I was wrong, when I accused you of only wishing to bed me.”

“Of course,” Hal agrees, near instantly. “Though I certainly would not have protested it. As I’m sure you can see.”

“I was holding the evidence of it in my very hand not ten minutes past,” David tells him solemnly. “Nor would I mind returning to such activities.”

“I fear the mood has been broken irreparably for tonight. But that is of no consequence- truthfully, there is no need to look so bereft!” Hal laughs, and the remainder of the tension is dispelled with more ease than David thought possible. He feels something strange settle in his chest- not a weight lifted, but a piece neatly slotting in. An awareness that was not there before.

“I would never forget how devastatingly attractive you find me,” David says, letting a smile play at the corners of his mouth.

“And I do not believe I ever went as far as to call you devastatingly attractive.”

“You did not need to say it out loud; I cannot think of another reason why you would have your mouth on my cock so soon.”

“I thought it would keep you quiet.” Hal sighs theatrically, shaking his head. “And that was the real miscalculation of the evening.”

“Are you saying that I talk too much?”

“You know that you talk too much, I am saying that there is just no way to prevent that. If I were to gag you, I am near certain that you would pen me a letter with your remarks!”

David just hums, letting himself fall back onto the couch and pulling Hal with him. It is strange, that he feels so at ease, but he refuses to let himself question it. A crisis has been averted, as far as he is concerned.

“I think there are better ways to shut me up,” he informs Hal archly. “And I think that you talk plenty, too.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” Hal hums, leaning up so the words are practically spoken against his mouth. David allows it, just as he allows that there be not much more conversation on that night.


	5. In Which David Has Yet Another Honest Conversation, Though Admittedly Better Than The Others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to say that I forgot this existed, but. This has somehow spiralled to over 50k words now and I'm struggling with the ending. But that ending, will get written. I'm going to finish my first chaptered fic ever, y'all.

Hal is not the type of company David expected. But he is precisely the kind of company David appreciates, his tongue sharp and talented, eyes intelligent. He is quick to criticize but slow to truly anger, and shockingly easy to while away the hours with, even without carnal activities involved. He is, perhaps, the sort of brother that David would have wished the Colonel to be. Certainly, he is more compelling than almost anyone that David has favoured in quite some time.

And so he finds himself meeting with the youth frequently over the course of the following months- not necessarily always at Hal’s residence, but sometimes at his own, and even at the theatre, though not always to view something that he’s penned. They rip it to shreds mercilessly, of course, but it is still diverting to see the choices Hal makes and hear his reasoning.

They do not talk about his family much again, and for that, David is deeply grateful. Though he can sense Hal skirting around the issue, occasionally poking at it to see how David reacts, but he has ceased taking it as a personal attack. After all, David has always been talented at deflection, and this is no exception to that rule. He does not hear about Hal’s family either, though he does not ask out of courtesy; he can gather enough information without voicing any questions.

Hal is rather talkative, if not as proficient in keeping personal information to himself as David is.

The most curious thing, though, is how he finds himself wishing to actually speak to Hal about things. The longer they spend together, the more he begins to entertain the thought of confessing it all to Hal. It is nothing but an errant fantasy; David knows better than to go through with it. He tells himself that it is not because he fears Hal’s judgement, but because his secrets are very much his own. Nor does he need to justify himself to someone whose existence he was unaware of at this time last year.

But the ghosts of that conversation- that _damned_ conversation- still linger. Guilt he refuses to acknowledge gnaws at him. Rosalind has not written, Roxanne has not written, and of course the Colonel has not written, because he never bloody does and never bloody would even if his life depended on it. Which it also never bloody has. For all David knows, he has flouted the laws of the land and the church and gone right ahead to marry Jacob fucking English, or has simply dropped dead. Though he hopes that Rosalind would at least tell him if the latter happened, he still isn’t entirely certain how resolved things are between them. A death in the family ought to at least provide an excuse for a reunion, if David thought he would even be allowed within ten leagues of the funeral.

As for the prospect of a wedding- David is deeply thankful that it is an impossibility, unless they were to elope on an island with no other humans around. Though given Dirk’s eschewing society as a whole, and the English boy’s enjoyment of running unchecked and wild- or so David hears, and has seen for himself- it is perhaps more likely than he might think.

He hates that he even considers this remotely possible, and still reacts knowing that the chances are miniscule.

But there are other things to think about, easier distractions in town now that the worst of the ache and the bitterness has faded. It has a tragic tendency to flare up now and again, but David has grown used to it. He tells himself that it is no different from before- and he is even better off now, with superior company and the appreciation that he would never get from the Colonel.

It is rarely silent when he is with Hal, and even then, the quiet is not heavy with resentment and anger and things best left unnamed. It is not burdened with years of a difficult, rocky relationship disintegrating under their feet, nor the ash of the bridges David now knows he has burnt. Hal is a matchstick in and of himself.

David listens to him even now, interested in a story that would be dull by any other means, with any other narrator, simply because he does not and cannot give a single shit about whichever eligible young lady has thrown herself in the path of one of Hal’s acquaintances for the fourth time this week looking to make an excellent match.

He tells Hal as much- marriageability is such a fleeting concern, after all, though perhaps something gets lost in the articulation.

“Your intoxication does your tongue no favors,” Hal replies, acerbic as is his usual manner.

“No? I rather think it makes it more pleasant to experience,” he winks, his mouth curling up into a smirk. The shape of it is familiar, and David feels more like himself than he has since leaving the Lalonde house two months ago. It is a slow process, doubtlessly expedited by the alcohol in his system. “Nevertheless, it takes more than this to get me properly soused, as you well know.”

“That,” Hal says, “is an extremely low standard. Low enough to be buried six feet under, locked in a coffin, and eulogized before it turns to dust and food for the worms. Just as your plays ought to be, though with the additional step of burning them. Just in case, you understand.”

“You keep saying that my work is terrible, but I have yet to see you enjoy something as much.”

“I’m starved for good entertainment, and hunger is the best sauce for the unappetizing.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you,” David sighs mournfully.

“You would not spend such a large portion of your time with me if I didn’t. And you really ought to slow down, I have no intention of carrying your drunken arse home and having you cast up your accounts all over my new shoes. I may as well leave you in the alleyway to fester and rot.” Hal pauses, only to cut David a sly, cunning smile that immediately sends some semblance of alarm through him. His voice drops to naught but a whisper, barely audible over the din of the pub. “But I would have no problem fucking your drunken arse, so I suppose we’ll see.”

“Those- are very dangerous words, Hal. I may even consider them a promise.” David pastes on his best and most lascivious grin, which Hal greets with an unimpressed look. Despite their liaisons, the youth enjoys playing the part of a coy ingenue, uninterested and flirtatious in turns.

“Consider them what you wish, if it is any incentive for you to not drink yourself into a stupor tonight. Or, I would at least like an explanation as to why you feel drowning your sorrows is the best choice of action.” Hal somehow makes it all sound entirely unreasonable, as if David should be sober and solemn- an impossibility, by any metric.

He just sighs in lieu of an answer.

“Extremely helpful.”

“I was trying to say earlier, before you insulted me, about- family. Family issues.” David waves one hand; it flops at the wrist, disconcertingly flaccid. “Not that you insulted me about family on this occasion. But I was thinking of them. Of visiting them.”

Even tipsy, David notices the way Hal stiffens, damn near flinching away from his words.

“I see.” His voice is cold and carefully measured, but he cannot hide his fingers curling into a tight fist.

“You look- angry. Upset, about this.”

“I am not.”

“You should not be. It is only a visit, dear, I will return.”

“I told you, that _I am not_.” The emphasis cracks, like a whip between them.

“Temper, Hal,” David drawls out. It is an attempt at levity, and it fails. “But- I cannot avoid them eternally, and if I am honest. We did not part on good terms.”

“Do you ever?” Hal bites out. “For all that you complain and slander them, it is difficult to believe that you were ever on good terms.”

“I get along very well with my sister and my niece. The former is even amused- did you know that she has made corrections to how I slander her, so as I can do it more effectively? Not many do. It is a trade secret, and I will know if you spread the word.”

“Rosalind is more charitable than either of us give her credit for, then.”

“Oh, no. She’s terrible, and would combust if she ever set foot in a church. Though that is a joke between us, you understand; I could not possibly put it an anything meant for a good Christian audience.”

“Very few of your patrons are both good and Christian, or even either of the two.”

“Yes! But they do pretend to be, do they not?”

“It would be difficult to dispute that claim, yes. And- you have not mentioned your niece at all. Not even the most oblique of references, nor a slip of the tongue outside the theatre. Other than to me, that is.”

“Ah. Yes. She is arguably the best of all of us. No- do not look at me like that! I would not criticize her, though she believes that I would drag her good name through the mud. And that without even arguing once! But I will admit that her mother and I have not always been particularly straightforward about the intricacies of our relationship, and why Rosalind is willing to overlook certain things.”

“Surely you know what that seems to imply.”

“That we are close?”

“You are making it worse, David.”

“I have no idea what it is you mean, Hal,” he answers in the same time.

“Of course not. But, go on. She does not know why it is that Rosalind will overlook what you write about her, nor why her mother finds it amusing.”

“Her mother finds it amusing because she has a disgustingly twisted sense of humor and enjoys mocking me. But that is not what we are talking about.”

“Is it not?”

“No.”

“Very well, then. By my count, you have elaborated on how amiable your relationship with the female members of your family is, and so there can only be your brother left, unless you are returning to the estate because some long-lost relations have crawled out the woodwork. Or the grave, I suppose.”

“Hm. I do not think Rosalind is actually capable of reviving the deceased, no matter how macabre she may be at times. She may send me to a grave if our relationship soured too much, though- so if I vanish, I do believe you ought to search there.”

“If you vanish, there is no small amount of people who would rejoice to see you gone, nor pay to piss upon your grave.”

“And you would charge them ten pence apiece to do so.”

“Not at all. I would be far more extortionate. Not to mention how much I could make from selling off any valuable items of yours. People may even value your work as more than cheap, immediate entertainment after you die. Though your legacy may require a few centuries to be truly appreciated.”

“Your profits will be limited to my funeral, it seems. And that is the true tragedy.”

“Precisely!” Silence hangs between them in the wake of Hal’s half-forced joy. David holds his tongue- a new skill he has developed lately, Hal would say- and waits for the other to continue; there is yet something he wishes to say. And David wishes to hear it. “But I would mourn you, if you were to die.”

Hal’s expression twists into something complicated that David cannot quite read- there is a mixture of regret, guilt, but the easiest to see by far is the uncertainty. Hal is as uncomfortable with any form of vulnerability as David is, though they have vastly different definitions of the term. Hal’s has expanded to include admitting any sort of fondness for David in any circumstances. The world could come to an end, the four horsemen could be beating at the doors, and Hal would not say a word concerning the matter. It makes this small admission all the more meaningful- and all the more alarming.

“If I were not stone dead in this scenario, I would appreciate that. As is, I can tell you of my appreciation now, and perhaps even show it later.”

“I thought you brought me here to explain why it is you are leaving.” David, just beginning to relax at the careful avoidance of discussing his younger brother, tenses once more. He can tell that his expression is nearly comical, or terribly shocked, given that Hal lets out a sharp laugh.

“I did not tell you of any plans to that end,” David answers carefully.

“But it is something that has weighed heavily on your mind of late. I told you that I know you, David, and that has not changed because I indulge you with my company.”

“I thought that it might. Certainly, we have not discussed the topic.”

“As much as you pride yourself on being a mystery to all mankind, you are not a difficult man to read if one knows what they are looking for. Besides- where else would you go alone?”

“I could have intended a visit to the Continent. Or the seaside, you know. For my nerves, for my health.”

“To cure you of what, consumption?”

“I hear Brighton is the best place to get a husband. It would cure me of heartbreak and a cold bed.”

“Do I do an inadequate job of warming it?”

“I daresay you are the reason I awake to frozen toes! The duvet is all but gone, and you barely visible beneath it.”

“I can hardly help it if your grip is terrible and you fail to remain vigilant.”

“I ought to kick you off on the next occasion,” David grouses. Hal looks far too pleased to hear the threat- doubtless because he believes that David will not follow through on it. A shame, given that he very rarely bluffs.

“There are a great deal of things that you ought to do that you do not,” Hal tells him, smug. “And despite your threats to find yourself a pretty young thing by the sea, we both know that it would be naught but a fleeting connection. You would be bored to tears within a month, and be forced to flee, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind. No doubt the relations of the wronged party would hunt you down and string you up in the end, for you would never concede to marriage or making any form of commitment as an amendment. A terribly inglorious way to go.”

“Have I ever told you that it is disconcerting, how much time you devote to planning out methods by which I may die?”

“You harp on about it excessively, and I do request that you stop. They would fail to catch you, and so the rest of the plan is foiled, and my fun ruined.”

“Not everything I say or do is intended to destroy any amusement you may gain in this cruel world,” David tells him, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s a terribly self-centered way to think about things.”

“Ha! And I suppose you would be the expert on selfishness. If there were ever a vice you had in spades, David Lalonde, that would be it.”

“And your avarice is cut from the same cloth!” David retorts. “But to think that everything I do is deliberate to slight you- _that_ is a level of delusion that not even I possess!”

“Yet, it is not entirely unquestionable,” Hal points out, crossing his arms. The tension begins to trickle in, the mood shifting to the somber as quickly as it had earlier deserted it.

“No. It is not,” he agrees. David closes his eyes, letting his head fall forward to thunk against the scarred wood of the table. It is slightly sticky to the touch, and he regrets the move almost instantly. “But I would not- you do not deserve such cruelty.”

“What we deserve is not always what we get.” It is spoken softly, more gentle than Hal normally cares to be.

“Do you think that I was wrong?”

“I could not say that you were right. But nor could I make any suggestions- or even the slightest of implications- that he is of a worse character than you portray. You would have me laid out on the floor and bleeding near immediately.” David frowns at those words. There is a strange bitterness in Hal’s tone as they speak around Dirk.

“Perhaps! But- perhaps not. You may deserve it in that moment, but I do not doubt that you would ensure I regretted any lapse of control like that.” David pauses for a moment, considering his next words. “And I would regret it deeply, even without any intervention on your part.”

“I appreciate that,” Hal finally says, his voice warm. “Though I doubt my inclination to give you the benefit of that doubt, or hesitate at all.”

“It would be a case where I most certainly deserved what I got,” David grins over at him. He is pleased that Hal is relaxed again- or as relaxed as he ever gets, the boy is wound as tight as his brother can be though twice as snappish about it. Finally, the words that he says are right. And they are even true, though he finds that he is not particularly shocked by it. If wishing to confess his sins to Hal is commonplace, then regretting harsh words between them certainly ought not to be. But there is also a silly satisfaction in knowing that he has successfully reassured the other, a small achievement that ought to be insignificant but is instead monumental.

“I could have you thrown in jail for it, probably,” Hal tells him after a long moment. “Then you would get what you have earned in an ignoble life.”

“The gaol would not survive me,” David answers. “And I do believe that you would miss me too much to do such a thing.”

“I’m sure I could arrange a conjugal visit of some kind.”

“It would be terribly convenient for them to arrest you for sodomy there,” David observes, without a hint of a smile on his face. “But there are better causes to dedicate your influence to.”

“Such as slander?” Hal raises an eyebrow. “While I indulge in poetry, the arts have never been my true calling. But ruining a reputation is not a difficult thing- as you well know.”

David nods, acquiescing his point. “I have always thought that you would suit politics, if that is of any use. I can picture you very well terrorizing the poor souls in Parliament.”

“Ha! The House of Lords would be in shambles as soon as I set foot in it with those old fools.” Hal outright laughs, shaking his head. “It would be a more respectable occupation than anyone could have expected of me, though.”

“I look forward to one day mocking you and your politics, then,” David says earnestly. “I can promise that it will be infinitely more entertaining than any nonsense the others can come up with. The papers are terribly uncreative, you know.”

“It is a wonder you never tried your hand at writing.”

“I prefer to leave that to my sister, if I am to be perfectly honest. I doubt that any newspaper would have hired me beyond the first scathing article.”

“You would be the worst kind of liability.”

“Precisely. Though, do you think that it would have helped?”

“In what sense?”

“In that having someone or something to rein me in would have eased the burden on my family, as it were.”

“I’m nearly certain that it would have, yes. The things you imply in your plays would never find their way into print. But I daresay that is why you chose your medium. You are not trapped by the demands of the populace, rather, you create demand and fuel gossip. It is far from respectable, but it is admirable in its own way. And it is too late for you to regret any of it.”

“It is.”

Silence reigns for a moment, as David contemplates the wording of his next question. It is one that has gnawed at him near constantly these past months, though he has never spoken it aloud. Not even to himself; it seems dangerous, a denial and a rejection of everything he has believed and stated his entire life. David has always been a man to move forward at all costs, to have no regrets, and yet-

Perhaps he ought to.

“Do you think-,” he begins, and then cuts himself off as the words get stuck in his throat. Hal does not mock him, does not jump in with a sharp rejoinder to redirect the conversation as is his skill. He simply watches David, his eyes heavy and knowing in the flickering lamplight, his finger tracing lazily around the rim of his glass in a perfect circle.

“Do you think that I can go back?”

“No. Barring the sort of temporal travel that novelists and particularly ardent preachers may fantasize about, you cannot go back. And you have scorned the idea on multiple occasions- even if only as a way to avoid being held accountable for your actions. Which is why you’re asking me this to begin with, isn’t it?” Hal raises an eyebrow. His finger stills on the glass, perfectly poised just next to a droplet of moisture.

“It is a strange thing, to be faced with your own hypocrisy,” David remarks in lieu of an answer. But it is answer enough, from the knowing smile on Hal’s face.

“Then I shall tell you what I think. Do prepare yourself- if you must shoot the cat, I must request that you find a bucket and do so now. I despise being interrupted.” David recognizes the opportunity for what it is- a chance to leave, to let the mood lift and the conversation drift, but he is half-sober and fully able to hear what Hal has to say. He simply nods.

“Very well, then. I suppose it all boils down to forgiveness. You cannot reconcile regrets with your desire to overlook any mistakes, and that is all well and good, but surely your pride cannot be above asking for forgiveness. From what you have said, I doubt that your sister or niece would begrudge you anything. And I would be hard-pressed to say that you have wronged me in any matter of consequence, though if you were to ask for a list, I would provide one in chronological order.” Hal offers a slight smile, as if it can offset the tremendous weight of what he has just said. Not that he seems to note anything significant about it at all, given the dismissiveness of his tone; perhaps it is something he has been thinking of telling David for quite some time, perhaps it is just that obvious. But it seems a terribly difficult thing. Impossible for reasons that he cannot tell Hal.

“There is a reason you are not invited to accompany me on this visit, Hal, and that is the havoc you and Rosalind would wreak upon my confidence,” he says instead. His voice does not quite tremble, but it still lacks the light, jocular tone to make the joke land. “But you are right. They would forgive me easily.”

“You say that as if it is a curse rather than a blessing. Do you worry that you do not deserve it?” Hal’s question seems genuine, more so than he would have expected.

“Yes. No.” David frowns, pausing to think and properly articulate his thoughts. “It is not that I think that I do not deserve it, because it is something that I want. But- I would worry that they were only granting it to appease me, that it would be a meaningless token.”

“An understandable fear. I suppose it _is_ different than questioning whether you are deserving or not, though I doubt that they would take well to having their motives questioned. But I do not think it would be an empty gesture from them, designed to make you leave and never ask for it again.”

“I think that it would be very much like my sister to test me that way. See if a few sweet words are enough to quell a superficial desire for reconciliation, and then reject me if I were to accept it easily.”

“You have never accepted _anything_ easily, and I ought to know.” Hal sighs theatrically, overly disgruntled with an incident they both remember vastly differently.

“We aren’t discussing that,” David tells him. “Not now, and not ever.”

“Agreed. Though if your dear sister were to ask, I would be more than happy to regale her with the information.”

“And that is why you will never meet.”

“Coward.”

“Let’s not go there.”

“Of course not. I shall leave your ego intact for now.”

“A kindness most uncharacteristic.”

“Am I not giving you advice as we speak? And I did say that I dislike interruptions- we have yet to talk about your brother.”

David damn near flinches.

“Don’t look at me like that. We always skirt around the topic, and as I said before: if your relationship with Rosalind and Roxanne are both on the mend, then the problem lies with your brother. It isn’t a particularly difficult deduction to make; the man is practically a bleeding, festering wound on your soul.”

“Yes, well. It is not something that I particularly enjoy discussing.”

“If you are suggesting easing the pain with another drink, I will ask that you refrain. Not just due to any disgusting bodily fluids, but because I am only going to say these things once, and you are going to remember them.” Hal pauses, looks at David until he gives a nod of agreement. “Thank you.

“I do not know the details of it, and frankly, I do not care to. But I will tell you this much: If someone had treated me the way you have treated him, I would not even consider forgiveness. I rather think that I would ruin their reputation in turn, though for you, that would be difficult given the complete lack thereof. I would have to resort to simply ruining your credibility as a playwright, or any kind of artist. Depending on how angry I was, I might even have had you jailed on false charges.” It is infinitely sobering to hear Hal casually list the ways he might ruin David’s life, as if he has considered it at all.

“I do not think that you could put me behind bars, despite your threats,” he finally answers, frowning vaguely over at Hal.

“I have wealth and some connections, but you are correct in that, at least. I do not yet find myself in the position where bartering away favors and debts would be worth it. If I were the Colonel, though, I likely would have done so already.” Hal is entirely serious about this, David knows, and yet he finds himself yet again comparing the two. The boy would not have done this, though perhaps it was not out of cowardice like David had originally believed. But if not that, then what else could it be?

“And yet here I am. Unpunished,” David lifts his arms, gestures widely around him. He lets them drop after a moment. “You are not him.”

“No. And so I cannot say why he would leave you be. Perhaps he hoped that you would tire of the game, perhaps he thought that to retaliate would provoke worse. Perhaps he did not see the value in wounding you, or perhaps he simply did not think that anything he did would truly hurt.” Hal shrugs expansively. “It could be anything, really.”

“It would be dangerous to believe that it was because he bore me any kind of good will.”

“Indeed.” Hal drums his fingers against the rim of the glass. “If I were inclined to speak from experience, I would tell you not to put too much trust in what it is you _want_ him to be thinking. It will color and taint your actions, and can very easily lead to disaster. Though despite what you may depict him as, I do hear that the Colonel is a very restrained man. Rather, I hear it by the lack of other gossip about him- he is rarely in town, no?”

This seems more a digression than an actual point, but David nods his agreement.

“Mm. I would expect him to seek you out at some point, if you were to do something truly outrageous.” Hal pauses, his eyes narrowing as he looks at David. Truly looks at him, with a piercing gaze that makes David feel as if he is speared upon a pin. “Which is what you have been doing all this time, hasn’t it?

“Goodness. All that trouble to provoke one man. And here I thought the Baroness ceased to feature in your shorter works simply because you had developed some sense, or decided to truly lambast her in the three-hour-long spectacle.” It is the disappointment in Hal’s tone that truly affects him, as if he had expected more.

“I would not go that far,” he says, but the defense is weak.

“It appears that I was mistaken about you,” Hal tells him. His voice has shifted into something cool and disinterested, though David feels no less exposed. “But perhaps I should have known better. Did you know, you have never once asked about my family? Or about my life at all? I will admit that you would be unlikely to get a straight answer; I did not think you deserved one then, and I will not give you one now. But I will tell you this much: If you genuinely want to make amends, you must be prepared to throw away your pride. And even then, you ought to be prepared for rejection.”

David nearly laughs at that- he has been facing that rejection for years now, a complete lack of reaction but for a single night.

“I can see you don’t quite believe me. But one way or another, you will change your relationship with him- or lack thereof- and it is something that you ought to prepare for. It can be a good thing, to cut someone off and let them go. Doctors will often remove the limb to save the patient, before the rot spreads too far,” Hal says.

“Despite everything, I _am_ capable of focusing on important things, despite the familial issues I may be having.”

“I know that. It is impressive, really. But I never said that you were the patient.”

There is a beat of silence, and David makes himself meet Hal’s even stare. He can feel his heart in his throat now, nausea rising.

“Are you suggesting that you think he is better off without me?” It is unthinkable, a betrayal that cuts to the quick; how could Hal say that, when he has never met Dirk and only known David? When he only has hearsay to go by? When he has never seen the Colonel as he used to be, an animated child who would forever be underfoot?

“You need to understand that he may think so, yes.” Delicate tip-toeing around the topic, typical of Hal’s brand of evasion. “And given that you landed yourself in this situation to begin with, don’t you dare get upset at me for pointing out the obvious.”

“So, the world as a whole is better off without me?”

“Now you’re conflating it with a false issue.”

“Are _you_ better off without me?”

“I am _not_ your brother, David,” Hal all but spits, his eyes flashing now. He is mercurial as ever, and the thin veneer of frozen calm shatters, just like that. “Despite what you seem to think, we are not related. And so you do not need to take it personally when I tell you that I would not forgive such crimes against my person- for no sane person would! Nor do you need to attack me for telling you the truth where you would be wilfully blinded otherwise! You yourself has said that he ought to hate you, that he does not love you, yet you lash out when I point out the clear consequences of that.”

“I never said that you were him! Believe me Hal, you two are as different as night and day,” David says, quick to reassure him. Hal’s near derisive snort is enough to tell him that it has not worked. But he cannot admit that the resemblance is uncanny, that it may have been what initially drew him in; Hal would take it the wrong way, and assume their entire relationship has been built upon a foundation of lies. No, David cannot own to the truth. He cannot lose Hal, too. “For one, you are more than pleased with my company.”

“When you have a mind to be, you are excellent for conversation. It is not a hardship to spend time with you, David, though at times you insist on making it more difficult than it needs to be.”

“I resent the implication that now is one of those times.”

“Not only have you said that you are leaving, but in the course of your explanation, you damn near shed tears for filial relationships gone sour. Of course it is one of those times.”

“You should have cut me off, if you did not wish to hear about it. Lord knows that you are quick to cease any conversation that you do not wish to have, or steer it to more favourable waters.”

“Now. I never said that I was wholly opposed to it. I-,” Hal breaks off, clearly reconsidering his words. But he soldiers on, determination evident in the set of his shoulders. “I wished to know more about you, and this is a topic that you would never speak of under normal circumstances.”

“I suppose. But- you know that part of why I had not asked about your life, is that you never seemed forthcoming on the details? Most people absently mention their families, their friends and loved ones, and yet you do not. Except for the aunt that left you your current abode, that is.”

A faint smile touches Hal’s lips.

“You remembered. Very impressive. And tragically, you make an excellent point. In return for your emotional outbreak just now, I shall venture to be more forthcoming in the future. If that would please you.”

“You make it sound as if I intend to subject you to eternal torment! I will not rake you over the coals, Hal. Certainly, it would be very ill of me to do that, given the advice you just offered. Despite being devilishly handsome, I am not the fallen angel himself.” David winks for good measure; the tension is seeping out of the air, and Hal has given him quite a few things to think about.

“Your behaviour certainly matches,” Hal deadpans. “I know of quite a few young souls who have been terribly damaged in both body and mind. Their chastity, stolen.”

“Apologies- am I meant to believe that you were chaste?”

“You have no evidence that I wasn’t,” Hal says smugly. “And I think that you will find that there are no smears on my reputation, despite the time we have spent together.”

“I shudder to think of the state the rumor mill must be in, with all the pressure you are putting on it to keep this quiet.”

“And what exactly would you mean by ‘this’?”

“The scandalous tales of our close friendship?” David offers, raising an eyebrow. “It would be a terrible idea for it to be anything else.”

“Hm. You are not the type of man to settle down, not at all.”

“Well, perhaps a pretty maiden could tempt me away from a life of indolence and hedonism.”

“I believe we’ve discussed the eventual outcome of this scenario before, and it certainly isn’t favourable to you or the maiden in question. But I could don a dress if you insisted on stripping it off of me later,” Hal’s voice drops to naught but a whisper, though that does nothing to mitigate the heat that rises to David’s face.

“Now why would I ever need a maiden when I have you to play the part for me?” He murmurs in response. “I ought to say that you could be a budding young actor. The life of the stage.”

“Perhaps if you write a suitable part, I would do so,” he concedes. “But if I truly am to play the part of a bashful young bride, you ought to bring me to meet your family at some point, not to mention a ring so I can actually be a bride. I will even get into a brawl with your brother for your honor, if needed.”

“As entertaining as that would be, I fear that he would handily win that fight. Though I am flattered that you think I have honor after all- and that is a statement I intend to hold you to, next time you try and attack it,” David warns him.

“The army has done no real fighting in years, and I think that I could hold my own, thank you very much. Perhaps you could sell tickets on the streets to get us an audience- I am sure that he has his fair share of enemies, and I mine. The betting pool would be outrageous,” Hal muses aloud. “It would be a spectacle.”

“I do not think that you could convince him to participate by any means, unfortunately.”

“I hear to the East they engage in some form of oil wrestling. I think that you would find that awfully compelling.”

“Confusing, perhaps. The thought of you grappling at each other like well-greased pigs is not as appealing as you seem to think. Amusing, perhaps,” David says. “Though you may be able to convince him to agree to it by saying that it was all the rage in Greece- as he well knows. The boy is terribly enamoured with antiquity. It’s almost a shame that he pursued the military rather than the arts, and was born a few hundred years too late. I am sure the Renaissance would have loved to have him.”

“As an artist’s muse, or an artist himself?” Hal enquires. “Because I would rather be a muse when nude modelling was in style.”

“I can imagine him as neither,” David answers honestly. “He used to enjoy music as a child, if that is of any assistance in your scenario.”

“Most do. I can’t say that I cared that much to apply myself to learning it, despite it being foisted upon me. The violin is quite nice, but I prefer the pianoforte. Less posture needed, you understand.” Hal grins over at him, deliberately slouching low in his chair with an exaggerated sigh of relief. Just like that, he goes from prim gentleman to local lout lurking in the pub. It is a transformation that never fails to amuse David; Hal is capable of blending in near seamlessly when he wishes to, comfortable and confident in his environment in a way that David has never seen on his brother. Or- has only seen it once, and that is a memory that still sours his mood.

“You ought to play for me sometime- I know that it was mentioned before,” David reminds Hal, casually as he can. “I would enjoy listening, I think.”

“A private show for you?” Hal raises an eyebrow, and David simply smirks in return.

“Far be it from me to decline that offer once made.”

“I am not a maestro, but only because I lack the discipline for such things.”

“How humble,” David drawls out.

“It is my best trait,” Hal answers, prim. “But if I am to perform for you, I must know when you are free to listen.”

A thinly veiled request, and one that David sees right through. But there is no heaviness in his heart when he answers- he fully intends to return, after all.

“I think that I ought to leave tomorrow- so tonight would suit. But I will not stay longer than a fortnight.”

“Sometime next month, then. I do need to prepare a programme, after all. Have you any preferences or favorites?” Hal casts him a coy smile, fluttering his eyelashes for good measure. It does not have a single ounce of sincerity behind it.

“I will provide you with a list.”

“Send it to me, so that I shall have your address.”

David blinks once, taken aback. “At my sister’s?”

“Where else? I already know where you reside in London.” Just like that, the coyness is gone, replaced with irritation. This, at least, is not faked. Hal rarely needs to resort to artifice when he is annoyed.

“I did not think that you wished to write,” he finally says. “Despite all the former lovers you have mentioned, I do not recall you saying that you kept in touch with very many of them.”

“David, please. Who do you think the friends that I speak of are?” Hal pauses, no doubt to relish the shocked expression that David can feel his face has frozen into. “No- ha, no need to look like that, darling. I have never mentioned speaking to them, because I do not usually. They were short affairs, you understand. A bit of fun and risk for both parties to indulge in, regardless of their sex. Though one was undoubtedly riskier than the other. But I would like to think that we get along too well to simply abandon any semblance of friendship the second you leave.”

“Hal,” David starts, uncertain. He is mindful of the earlier shift in their conversation, Hal’s strange defensiveness. “Were you concerned that I would leave and that you would never speak to me or see me again?”

“Now, that sounds rather melodramatic, don’t you think?” Hal answers, which is neither here nor there. “Perhaps I was worried you would manage to get yourself shot in a duel, and I would have lost the opportunity to convince you to bequeath me your unfinished works.”

It is a deflection that David very nearly allows to slide, but- he cannot. Hal would miss him, while he was gone. Hal had worried that David would leave and never look back, which is not wholly out of character, he must admit. But he wouldn’t have continued their acquaintance if he didn’t enjoy it, and words are quite inadequate to translate the odd contentment he feels while in Hal’s company. Though now it seems more important than ever to find them.

This is the reassurance that he never gave his brother, David thinks, and he near embraces the sting of shame that accompanies the thought. Never mind that he is conflating two entirely different men yet again, but if that is truly the root of their troubles- well. It is no wonder that their relationship worsened to active antagonism.

He wonders if it means anything, that he wishes not to make the same mistake twice. But being on the receiving end of Hal’s ire is a daunting thought, and so he would prefer to ascribe his decision to that.

“I would never. I shall eat them on my deathbed,” he promises with an entirely straight face. “But, if I may have a moment of honesty?”

“Hm. Go on, but I reserve the right to believe you have been bewitched or poisoned.” The careful doubt in Hal’s voice is masterfully crafted.

“You ought to be a comedian, truly. That is your calling, not government or the law,” David tells him. “I simply want you to know that though I had not expected our friendship to last this long- I half believed you would vanish to another city, perhaps even the Continent-, I would very much dislike ending it, and would prefer to avoid that if possible. Excluding circumstances such as your finally following through on your numerous threats to my person, of course. That is an easy way to end any relationship, regardless how dear it might be to the receiving party’s heart.”

“But it would be quite the statement, you must agree,” Hal says. There is a faintly satisfied smile playing across his face, though it does not unnerve David. It is more relieved than it is smug, and the expression is almost strange on the face of a young man David knows to be terribly composed, despite bouts of anger and irritation. But relief is a vulnerability he doubts Hal would wish him- or anyone, for that matter- to witness, and so he does not comment on it.

“I doubt that I would enjoy it,” he replies honestly. “My capacity for pain is truly not what you seem to think it is.”

“Well, perhaps,” Hal concedes.

The atmosphere between them is easy, relaxed, for the rest of the night. David has no cause to dwell too deeply on the words that passed between them, especially not those concerning his brother. Dirk is very far from his mind, and the most he thinks of the Colonel comes in the form of relief that Hal has not drawn any unbecoming conclusions. David suspects that he would know, for the other is never shy about making his displeasure known.

It is a feeling that he wishes he could crystallize and keep for later. It may not be something that he will share, for it feels too deeply personal to describe in any but the most private of settings, but David must admit that he feels lighter than he has in years.


	6. In Which David's Day Is Marginally Better Despite Difficult Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still going strong, y'all.

It is a grey, dreary morning that David awakens to, and he can feel the chill in the air before he even leaves the bed. There is a pleasantly warm body pressed against him, though his exposed legs are cruelly subjected to the morning cold, goosebumps prickling up his skin.

Hal has stolen the sheets, yet again, though this time he is turned to face David, auburn eyes open and observant. It’s an unnerving effect.

“Have you been watching me sleep?” He asks, his voice rough. He makes a token effort to yank some of the duvet back over himself.

“You drool quite a lot,” Hal says in lieu of an answer, but it has David reflexively reaching up to wipe at his mouth. There is nothing there, and he shoots his companion a sour look.

“I most certainly do not.”

“The fact that you checked before denying it tells me otherwise.” Apparently through with his scrutiny, Hal rolls over onto his back, ceding some of the duvet. “You ought to leave soon, if you wish to make it there by nightfall.”

David stares up at the ceiling, letting the silence speak for him on this matter.

“I thought that you were serious about making amends,” Hal prods at him further. “You need to be physically present to do so.”

“Rosalind is like a bat,” he says instead.

“Shrieking, flying, and prone to draining blood?”

“Nocturnal, actually.”

“Less terrifying, perhaps, but no excuse to arrive at an inconvenient hour.”

“Surely you know how hypocritical that is, coming from one who avails himself of my time at the worst moments.”

“I learned manners and know what is right, I just choose to ignore them. You’re simply trying to delay the visit and use that as an excuse.”

“Last night, I was under the impression that you did not wish me to go.”

“And now it is morning, and I am sick of your company. ‘What an inveterate babbler. Get thee gone!’”

“ ‘Babbler perchance, but innocent of the crime’,”1 David completes after an embarrassingly long pause. It has been too long since he was last forced to read anything from antiquity, and the reasons why are obvious. Sophocles was never his favorite, though he must admit that the Greeks truly understood retribution and revenge. They would have revelled in writing his biography, but that would require more death than he is wholly comfortable with to make tragedy, rather than ironic comedy. “Why could you have not said ‘get thee to a nunn’ry’?”

“ ‘Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?’2” Hal says near immediately, damnably pleased with himself. “And simply because the former fit better. How is this, then: ‘Get thee gone from my gate!’3”

“If I have ever heard that, I must confess that I cannot recall it,” David sighs, shaking his head. “But your intent is clear enough.”

“Nevertheless, I shall expect you in a fortnight, and you will find yourself trying to beat me away from your doorstep with a broom if it is not the case and I do not hear about it,” Hal says, completely serious.

“I would borrow Rosalind’s, but the damn thing refuses to listen to me.”

“You have never truly commanded a broom in your lifetime, and it shows,” Hal tells him, of course with his trademark disdain.

“The shocking part of this is that you even know what a broom is, believe me. Though since you seem to think it is used for chasing away unwanted guests as if they were unruly chickens, I daresay that you do not know what it is for,” David teases. He gains a slap to his arm for his cheek, his skin stinging slightly.

“Next time, I ought to turn the handle of one to you, and see what you think of it then.” Hal glances at him out of the corner of his eyes before continuing on. “But I think you would be eager for more afterwards, would you not?”

“It would be a novel experience, I am sure,” David answers, as diplomatically as he can manage. “Though I have never been nude and hit by a broom that _wasn’t_ intended to run me out of the bedroom faster. Granted, none of those ever made contact.”

“So you admit that a broom _can_ be used to chase away unwanted guests,” Hal says, satisfied as a cat that has gotten into the cream, and twice as smug about it. “I shall overlook the tales of your past misadventures, though if you were to make a humorous biographical work, I certainly think that it would go a long way to increasing your popularity.”

“I think that humiliating myself in front of the general public, and airing out any secrets of mine, is a terrible idea. And I doubt you would like how I’d portray you in it. For the humor, you understand,” David says, a slight smile tugging at his lips. There is no question that Hal would features alongside his family as an important character in that hypothetical work, but he suspects that the other would wish to hear it as confirmation.

“You say that as if I were anything else but your guiding star,” Hal sniffs, all faux-offense. “Providing sage advice and always watching over you from above to ensure that you stay on the path of truth.”

“If I am to be on the path of truth, I do not think that I could say any of that without perjuring myself most severely.”

“Then I am severely offended, and will require you to grovel at my feet when you return. Preferably with presents, mind you.”

“I am going to Sussex, Hal, nowhere exotic. I’ve no idea what you could possibly want from there, or if there’s anything extant of interest. Other than my fine self, of course, but that is a given,” he says with a roguish wink that contains more energy than he feels at this early hour.

“You are a man of great creative energy, David,” Hal answers, patronizing as he pats David once on the hand. “I am sure you will be able to come up with something sufficient.”

“Alas, you are too difficult to please. As flighty a muse as any,” David sighs. But he stands nevertheless, only wincing briefly when his bare feet press against the cold, cold floor. A shudder runs through his body.

Hal looks far too amused on the bed, sprawled out indolent and comfortable. He is the absolute picture of a lazy morning in, temptation dragging hungry claws down to shred David’s restraint.

“Go on,” Hal prompts with a flick of his hand, dismissive.

David goes, with more reluctance than he has before.

-

The trip back to the Lalonde estate is uneventful but for the way the quiet sinks into him. David has not realized how much time he’s spent with Hal, the past months; how much of that time was filled with conversation that he now finds he misses.

He is not sure that he will actually voice this to Hal, though. Not with his smugness already exceeding any human capacity, and not when he will hold it over his head for all eternity. David takes a moment to mourn his tendency to attract those who will constantly seek to blackmail him, emotionally speaking.

Of course, he will not tell Hal of his nerves, either, nor of his concern about what his sister will say or do when she sees him upon her doorstep entirely uninvited. If Dirk is there, she is more like than not to send him packing. If his brother is there, though- surely, she would have told him. David wants to believe that it is so, and yet the recollection of their previous argument weighs more and more upon his chest as he grows closer to the place he once called home. She would take the boy’s side over his, and he cannot even bring himself to despise the betrayal.

But if the Colonel were there, though. If.

It would make his apology more convenient, at the very least. It would steal the breath from his lungs and set panic down his throat. It would make things infinitely more complicated. He pictures it anyway, the first time he has allowed himself to since- since he met Hal, actually, if he thinks about it. Thankfully, David is quite skilled in _not_ thinking about it.

He knows what he is going to say to Rosalind and Roxanne, of course; he has not quite rehearsed the speech, for she will know that and mock him for it, but he does not think he ought to say the same thing to Dirk. He had never really hurt either of their reputations, not actively and intentionally, and not in any way that they were unaware of. But the past lingers as a heavy weight between him and his sister, and the future one between him and his niece. It is not nearly as nerve-wracking, when he knows that they will accept it in the end and be all the happier for it. Though with the addition of a promise to spend more time at the estate, he is not certain just how much Rosalind would enjoy it- theoretically, it is a nice gesture. Practically, she may well prefer it to be an empty one, for they are like as not to drive one another insane. And David knows who will be on the receiving end of any hysteria-induced homicide. But theirs are easy apologies to make, given that he has not wronged them so much as slighted them.

His brother, though. It is strange that this has become the foremost matter on David’s mind; the main portion of his worries about any encounter. He has known Rosalind for far longer, and by all accounts Roxanne is dearer to his heart, yet it is the Colonel who he finds himself fixated upon. Perhaps it is because his sins against the boy are worse- certainly, he has never even contemplated fucking Rosalind but for a few sensations in extremely disjointed nightmares, one in which she ate him. David may not possess expertise in symbolism as such, but he is certain that this does not qualify as remotely sexual.

But he will not admit that he has dreamed of his brother- of their encounter- on several notable occasions since then. The unconscious and conscious minds are two very different beasts, after all. It is only now that he allows himself to wander down the path of uncertainty and think of what would- and could- pass between them should the Colonel currently be in residence.

Dirk would not come to the door, or come down to greet a guest unless both the Lalondes were out. And so in David’s imagination they are, and he is summoned to the sitting room- no, the study is more likely. Yes, there it is. The same old books line the shelves, surely with some new additions made to the family collection since he has left; Rosalind is a voracious reader and so his is brother, though their tastes differ greatly from each other, and from Roxanne’s. He would be seeing to his correspondence again, and this time there would be no letters from the young lord English to read or respond to. David has convinced himself that he does not envy their friendship too deeply, and so he forces his mind to note that any romantic notions have fizzled and died. Perhaps English is getting married to a respectable woman, perhaps Dirk has gone to the wedding and found that any attachment has faded to naught.

The Colonel would not be happy to see him, precisely; David is imaginative, but not delusional. But perhaps the open wound of their night together will have started to close, perhaps Dirk will still listen to him speak because of the propriety he clings so desperately to. Yes, that is far more likely, and David has never been more thankful for it. He does not think that the boy would speak first, simply stare at him, but his gaze would not be cold, either. David imagines a swirl of confusion and dislike- and yes, even resentment, since he prides himself on being at least partly a realist-, all poorly masking affection.

He would take the chance to speak, and he would say everything that has been bubbling up inside him since this whole thing began. Perhaps even before that. Strange, how easy it now is to fantasize about an apology and its acceptance. David doubts that he could get the words out so smoothly when faced with the man himself, but in this, he manages it. He is heartfelt, sincere as he never is, and breathless with his own vulnerability.

‘I wish to convey my deepest and most sincere regrets for the way I have treated you’ is too stiff and formal.

‘I know that you owe me nothing, but for the shared blood that runs through our veins- for the love that you once bore me, I ask you to listen.’ This is a better start, David thinks. His lips form the shape of the words, and their whisper is swallowed up by the noise of the carriage. They fit unfamiliar in his mouth, but he could get used to them. He could.

‘You must allow me to atone for how I have treated you’ would be an excellent place to start, but David finds himself reluctant to even work it into this scenario. He is not yet at the point of prostrating himself before his brother’s mercy- or lack thereof. Nor does he wish to beg forgiveness like a scolded child; he could not bear the indignity of it. Listing his sins would be counterproductive, and yet ‘I apologize’ is too brief.

But he would articulate it as best he could- the suddenness of rejection and how quickly it had turned bitter, though he could not say that it was partly a ploy to get the Colonel’s attention. Better that the boy thinks that David wanted to ruin him- this is an untruth that he can admit to. Dirk would not react well to that ugly need, and David has no desire to expose it to the light of his scrutiny. It is easy enough to compose this part of it in his mind, distancing himself from the reality of it.

Dirk’s hair gilt a pale gold in the afternoon light, buttery sun spilling in through the windows as the silence rings salvation. He would not say anything yet, but David knows that he would be conflicted; he can picture it in the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw is clenched. In how he cannot meet David’s eyes. But here, it would not be out of shame from what passed between them; it would be instinct to veil emotion that he does not want David to see.

He would resist the urge to tilt the boy’s chin up and lean in close; David is patient and can wait, and this, though excruciating, must be handled carefully. Though he would not wait long. Dirk would rise, abandoning his letters in favour of speaking to him. His words would be halting at first, uncertain rather than condemning- he would sound so terribly young.

David cannot quite stretch his imagination to guess at what his brother would say, but he seems the mouth something like forgiveness as he steps around the desk.

He can even feel the phantom weight of Dirk in his arms, warm and comfortable in a way that tugs at hazy memories as they embrace. David will not hope for more, he does not dare to. But this, dangerous as it feels to dream of- this could be enough.

He remains buoyed up with that optimism for the remaining hours of his trip, determined not to let the anxiety that begins to fray at the edges succeed too much. There is no reason he ought to be afraid. He keeps telling himself that Rosalind and Roxanne are sure to forgive him, and if the boy fails to acknowledge his sincerity, then it does not matter. Things could not possibly get worse, and David has managed quite well without his brother’s approval and affection.

Never mind that just an imagined taste of it makes him crave more, nor that the stolen moments from their night together have made themselves more precious to him than they have any right to be. He knows as well as anyone that such hurt will easily fade with time. And it is only a sense of petty vindictiveness that wishes Dirk to be more affected than he, should they fail to reconcile. As his family home comes into sight, David is abruptly forced to acknowledge that for all his planning and hoping, it is likely that this will come to pass. Another scenario paints itself in his mind, quite unbidden.

A door slammed in his face, harsh words spoken- or worse yet, naught but silence to greet his own heartfelt statements. Disbelief and disgust, and if a fist were to be thrown, he knows that he would deserve it right to the core of him. But there are worse things than a punch or a bruise, and he suddenly finds himself fearful of the manifold rejections potentially awaiting him. They hang over his head like a thundercloud, constantly threatening lightning along with lashing rain.

It still clings to him when he exits the carriage to a mild, discomfortingly pleasant evening. The current weather holds no thematic value, tragically. Nor does it seem like the world is holding its breath when he finally lifts a hand to knock on the door- a light breeze toys with the ends of his hair, rustling the grass and trees that flank the curve of the driveway. There are no servants about outside, but he could not expect them at this hour.

He braces himself when the door begins to open, though to anyone else it would be a visit as normal. Mr. Lalonde, appearing unexpectedly at his own whims. David would tell himself that it does not matter, that this is a social call like any other, but that falsehood is too far beyond him. But everything that he knows he needs to say is already bursting at his lips, ready for delivery, because he does not yet know who is behind the door, and he is praying that it is and is not Dirk all at once, because he is not ready in the slightest, yet it would be best to get the worst over with first, and he takes a breath to do just that-

And it is a maid that greets him in a smooth voice, coupled with a curtesy. His anticipation and anxiety meet a screeching halt, and he knows that she is wondering what sort of idiot he is, for the way he scrambles to muster the appropriate polite greeting. But it at least gives him time to comport himself, rearrange his expression back into neutrality as he is led over to the sitting room.

Clearly, his sister has been informed that there are no guests of import- she is bent over the table scribbling away in her curling cursive that is damn near illegible to him even after their entire lives together. There are even splatters of ink on her sleeve; no doubt the laundress will curse until she is blue in the face when she sees them. Out, damned spot, out!

“I do so adore this welcoming committee you have put together,” David says, loud enough to announce himself before the maid can do the honors. He is not sure whether or not she gives him a nasty look or an amused one, but he knows which is more likely.

“I hardly need to look my best for someone whose mouth I shovelled dirt into as a child,” Rosalind responds archly, though she does deign to look up. There is a severity in her gaze that belies the lightness in her tone. She does not know- she cannot-, but she at least suspects that he is not here for a casual greeting.

“And it was my only taste of failure,” he answers easily, playing on the arrogance as he settles down upon the sofa. He drops a wink at Roxanne, who is scowling at her mess of an embroidery hoop, and is more than gratified to see the dimpled smile she beams at him.

“I would not say that you have been entirely successful in all your endeavors, but no doubt the ones of a more personal matter are why you are here right now.”

“Your knowledge of my reasonings is as uncanny as ever, dearest sister, but on this occasion I am more than happy to confirm your suspicions. I would even dare you to say what it is you think I have come to tell you, would it not cheapen the words themselves.” David keeps himself relaxed, portraying the same indolence as ever. The moment is drawing closer now, he knows this, and he has every intention of seizing it.

Still, there is a moment of silence before Rosalind speaks in which he wishes that she would say his brother is here. But he cannot will her words into existence.

“Then you have matured more than anyone could have predicted.”

“Mother, do leave him alone, he’s trying his best to be sincere. Probably,” Roxanne interjects, cheeky as ever.

“I see you have little faith in my abilities,” David shakes his head. He would pout, were he not three decades too old for it to be effective.

“Not at all, Uncle! I have the utmost faith in your abilities, but I know that sincerity isn’t one of them!”

“And having fun at my expense? What on earth has your mother been teaching you?” he laments theatrically.

“Oh, very important things,” Roxanne answers with a conspiratorial wink. “I could not answer otherwise even if I wanted to! But all of this, I should think that I learned it from you.”

“And now, it is time for me to exercise something I have learned from you. Patience, goodwill, and a truly sincere prayer that your mother does not slit my throat by the evening’s end. Would you mind terribly leaving the two of us alone to chat?” David asks her, his tone gradually becoming more serious towards the end. It is not the most subtle of ways to hint that he would like her to leave, but it does ensure that she will not take offense. “I will be up to see you shortly, of course.”

“I shall put the hoop amongst the other forsaken items,” Rosalind says solemnly. “And do remember that young ladies oughtn’t to be eavesdropping.”

“You mean that I ought not to be caught eavesdropping, Mama,” Roxanne tells her, equally solemn.

“And I always catch you, so this time you may as well save me the trouble and yourself the scolding, and not attempt it,” his sister replies. He waits until Roxanne has dutifully left the room- not without a wave, of course-, to turn to Rose.

“I distinctly recall you having just the same habit of meddling and listening to things you were not meant to overhear,” he says. “And you certainly have not outgrown it.”

“Yes, well. Now I am old enough to be a spinster, I can be as meddlesome as I like, and people will think it suits me. Perhaps you ought to reinforce that norm, if you can,” she remarks.

“I am certain that I could,” David acknowledges, stalling. “But whether or not I ought to is another question entirely. I do not- it would not need to be a reference to you, is what I mean.”

“Ah,” Rosalind says, delicately. “I see you have considered quite a few things while you were in town.”

“That is not the half of it!” He laughs for a moment, the sound of out place in the increasingly sombre mood. He shakes his head, sighing. “But it is as good a summary as any. I have come to realize that I have not been fair to you- any of you, really.”

“Fairness is not what you are known for,” she hedges. “Though I must say that I would not curse your name and call you the blackest of villains who ought to burn in hellfire.”

“I should hope not. It is likely a sin of some kind to wish such torment upon your family.”

“And of the two of us, you are the unrepentant sinner,” Rosalind says with a shadow of a smile. “So, shall I stand or find some sort of throne to sit upon as you beg for my mercy?”

“Now, I would not go that far,” he admits. “While I am willing to apologize with true sincerity, I am not certain that you require a throne. You would go mad with power far too easily.”

“To the contrary, I would be a wonderful and gracious ruler. But do continue, though your denial of my divine right to rule is going to count against you.”

“Now- I would not be so hasty to do that,” he replies quickly, though he can tell that she is joking.

There is no response from Rosalind to this, and David knows that it is time. He cannot stall any longer.

“You have been gracious thus far, despite my recent claim to the contrary,” is what he starts with. “And I know that you have taken no umbrage to what I do with my plays, though Roxanne seems to think that I delight in dragging your name through the mud.”

“She believes that I indulge you too much in that respect, but truthfully, I do not mind it.” Her answer is evenly spoken. “And while you are spectacularly oblivious in some cases, I doubt that you could have ignored near two decades of passive-aggression.”

“You are very good at subtly making your displeasure known. I would have been entirely miserable, even if I were to flee to the colonies,” he agrees. “But- I do not think that is what I need to apologize to you for.”

“No? Then what, pray tell.” He can tell from her tone that she is not truly surprised, and perhaps this is something she has been waiting for.

“I- should not have left, after our parents died,” he finally says, after a long pause. It is too blunt, too immediate, and Rosalind barely flinches at his words. She closes her eyes, and nods.

“I know. But you did what you thought was best for you- or so you have said over the years.” There is a bitter twist to her lips now. “It is not the type of excuse that I wished to hear, nor one that I consider particularly valid. But it is the only reason I have heard from you.”

“Then if you would like, I can provide another,” he tells her. He cannot hesitate before he continues- if he does, he will never say it. “I did not want the responsibility of running the family estate, or of our name, or- anything that comes with being the eldest son. And- I am not a father, Rosalind. I did not want to be one then, and I do not wish to be one now. I was young and the thought of having dependents was repulsive.”

“You were terribly selfish,” she murmurs, her eyes still closed. It is as if she cannot bear to look at him, and David feels guilt and anxiety squirm in his gut. It is a terribly unpleasant sensation. “But you were young, and we were both grieving. Though we dealt with it in vastly different ways.”

“I went to the Continent, leaving you to fend off the wolves.”

“And I ended up with a child through a series of mistakes that ruined my reputation, though I would say that Roxanne is more a blessing than anything else.”

“We all would. But I should not have left, and that is the truth of it.”

“You know, I had not quite realized that it was something I held against you?” she remarks, and David’s blood near runs cold. He had not thought that crime so serious that she would hold a grudge to even this day, not when they have been on amicable terms. Not when they had fought hard to get there.

“I do think that you held it against me when I first returned,” he says, as calm as he can manage. “We did bitterly argue the entirety of that year.”

“Oh, yes. You had so much nerve, swanning in here and saying that you wanted your share of the inheritance so you might become a playwright. I thought you were mad.”

“That is much kinder than what you actually said.”

“So it is. But- I truly thought we had resolved it after that year, especially when your career blossomed.” Rosalind looks pensive, though David has not yet relaxed; he is waiting for the other blow to land. “Of course I resented you for it, especially when I was left to care for first one young child, and then another. But the children grew up, and you were part of Roxanne’s life, and I had grown into my own, when it came to managing income and the household. It was hard to hold on to something from the past when things were going well, if you understand. And yet, I suppose a part of me had been holding on to it all along, waiting for you to leave again. Strange, isn’t it? If you left now, I am certain that I would manage just the same as I am now- we hardly share this abode, after all.”

“It isn’t strange at all,” he tells her. He is more choked up than he would like to be, and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself. “I think- this is something that I ought to have said before. And perhaps it is not a grand gesture, but it does not need to be either. I thought that you had long since forgiven me for this- or would easily grant me any forgiveness, if that were not the case. And it would have been easier to not say it. But this is something that I realized I wanted you to know, even if it does not fix everything. I cannot say that I am a wholly changed man, you know that I favour my freedom more than anything else, but I would not- I could not let myself leave you like that again. I would be there.”

“Yes,” Rosalind says, after a long moment. She nods to herself, as if confirming something, or in the resolution of a conflict. David is more willing to bet that it is the latter than the former- his sister has always held tightly to her grudges. “I do. We are different people now than we were then. The young David Lalonde never would have even thought to apologize for something that he believed himself already forgiven for. Granted, he never would apologize for something he was at fault for, but my point remains. I appreciate your doing this, I promise. More than you know.”

David nods. He lets out a breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “And I appreciate your indulging me in this, and not doubting my sincerity. I thought it would be far more difficult than it actually was.”

“You mean that you thought I would put you on trial,” she corrects, amusement coloring her tone. “Even though I had not resolved everything as I believed, it was a long time ago. I do not think that I would change anything, if I am honest. It gave me my daughter, and in many ways, it gave me a son. It made me who I am today, and that is, I think, a good place to be.”

“It is. You have done well for yourself, despite an outstanding lack of support from my end. You raised her- them- well.”

“And is it not wonderful that I do not need your support, after all? Though I will admit that it is a lovely gesture of you to acknowledge that, too.” She pauses, as if weighing the next sentence. “I know that you think you have many amends to make with Roxanne, but as I said before. You are an important part of her life, and she adores you. She needs reassurances more than anything else. I do not think you need to concern yourself overmuch with earning any affection that you may have lost. She worries, and that is all.”

“She was upset with me, after the Colonel left,” David says, carefully. “I know that she was not thinking entirely rationally at the time, but-,”

“But she blamed you,” Rosalind finishes. “I know.”

“And you cannot say that you do not feel the same,” he sighs. “I do not know how to convince her that I would not do the same to her; she will not believe me. And I need her to.”

“Why?” The question is bald, straightforward. It ought to be simple enough to answer, given that David has been rehearsing his reasoning for this very cause.

“She is family, and- I would like for her to trust me,” he finally settles on saying. It feels wholly inadequate, but he does not wish to spill the entirety of his feelings on the matter to Rosalind. She may have refrained from dissecting his own attempts to make amends to her, but she has never been able to resist picking apart his reasoning and his emotions. Even now, he suspects that she is attempting to lead into it. “It is a simple enough matter, yet one that I have failed at.”

“And you were hoping that mending any old wounds with me would suffice to convince her of your sincerity?” Rosalind raises an eyebrow as she asks. Terribly direct, and David finds himself itching to divert and dodge the question.

“Or, I came to you first because I have known you the longest, and I believe that this old wound need not fester any more than it already had,” he hedges.

“Ah, but you have said that you thought my forgiveness would be easy to gain, and I have said that the wound was closed but for the phantom pains it caused.”

“Would you like me to own to wishing to use you as an example in this case? Because if so, I shall gladly do it.”

“You have never ‘gladly done’ a single thing I have asked of you,” Rosalind sniffs. “And that is the truth of it. However- yes, I would.”

“Then that was my plan.”

“I suspect that you underestimate the influence I have on her decision-making, though. Especially since she already knows that I am fond of you, and have yet to exile you from the household.”

“Exile is far kinder than what you would do to expel me from these grounds forever,” he tells her, amused. She concedes the point with a nod.

“You are a black stain upon this land, and it would take far more than a mere mortal power to purge you from it,” she intones. David supposes that it would be more mystical and far more ominous if the yellowing sunset light were not still slanting through the windows.

“And I am shaking in my boots at the thought of the divine wrath you could call down upon me,” he says serenely. “But I think you ought to save that until after I have finished my business upon this earth. Were I to haunt this place in the afterlife, not even that would be able to get rid of me.”

“If you mean to die only after Dirk forgives you, then it seems you have discovered the secret to eternal life, brother dear.”

David flinches, though he does not mean to. Of course he knew that it was a possibility. Of course he had thought of it- but he had also avoided thinking of it as best he could, preferring to focus on the slim chance that he would not be rejected. David has never been an optimist, but he is excellent at deceiving himself. And Rosalind’s words, despite being said in a light, jocular manner, are a brutal reminder of reality.

Her face softens immediately; David does not wish to know what his expression is. Something comedically stricken, he is sure.

“I did not mean it like that, David,” she says, quick to reassure after she has wounded. Though this time Rosalind has cut deep, and he cannot help but shy away from any pity.

“Then what did you mean, pray tell? Because I cannot see any alternatives,” he spits back. Defnesive- too defensive, perhaps, but who is she to tell him what is unforgivable and what is not? Who is she to say what his relationship with his brother will and will not be?

“It was a joke in poor taste,” she finally answers. There is a defeated slump to her shoulders.

“But you do not think it likely that he would accept any apology I offered, not even if I went crawling to his doorstep.”

“If you have doubts about Roxanne believing your sincerity, and she has always thought the best of you, then you ought to know that Dirk will never think you are telling the truth.”

“He will assume I am being facetious, of course, but to what end?”

“How am I to know? You have not done much to engender his trust.”

“But I have done much to lose it, correct? Do not deny it, you were just about to voice that thought.”

“Perhaps. But why does it suddenly matter whether or not he forgives you, or if you have a relationship at all? I would have thought you were happy to be two separate entities, never seeing each other.”

“Rosalind, forgive me any rudeness, but _why_ would I be happy about that?” Now David is utterly baffled; he knows that he has ended up ostracizing his brother, but it is a shock to hear that Rosalind has seen the distance as the desired outcome. He supposes that it is less pathetic than him not realizing just how far he was pushing the boy away, and certainly more flattering than him wanting the Colonel’s attention once he realized he could not have it.

“Not the belabour the point overmuch, but you did leave, and in part because you did not want the responsibility of caring for a child. Of course I know that there were other factors and this a small contribution, but nevertheless, it is the truth. Even when you returned, you would avoid him. I was shocked that you were not pleased when he left you to your own devices; I would have expected you to break into an impromptu jig, had you noticed.” She speaks softly, but this does not lessen the blow; the condemnation is still heavy.

“I was relieved,” he says, only it comes out as a choked whisper, the kind of sound that he despises himself for making. “But I- I do not know how it is that I made him hate me so.”

This too, is the truth. He knows what the final nail in the coffin was, where the breaking point lay, and he found out too late. But David cannot say what the beginning of it all was, even if he sifts through his memories with a fine-toothed comb for every detail. There is much that is missing, simply because he was not paying attention. He is left with two distinct facets of his brother: The boy he had been, and the man he has now become, and the transition between them is quite lost. But that makes it no less easier to admit to Rosalind, who he feels sometimes expects from others the same near omniscience that she possesses.

“I could not truly say when he changed his mind, either,” is what she says instead, rather than the judgement he had been awaiting. There are no accusations of how he ought to have paid closer attention, and for that, he is grateful. Of course, there is the distinct possibility that she is simply being diplomatic, and not wishing to further agonize him- and perhaps he ought to be upset at Rosalind patronizing him and coddling him, but he is not.

“And you cannot say how I should go about fixing it,” he says, absently. It must be true, else she would have demanded he repair the failing relationship before.

“I think that he would appreciate the effort if you tried?” she offers, uncharacteristically tentative. “But I could not say how he would react to it, either. Just that I doubt it would be in any way positive.”

“You think there is no hope, then,” he states, his voice flat and even. It entirely contrary to the hollowness that yawns in his chest. No. He would be fine with things remaining the way they were. He has been, after all. “Should I even try?”

“The worst that could happen has already happened, so there would be no harm in at least attempting to offer the proverbial olive branch.”

“Such sage advice,” David says bitterly.

“There is no need to take that tone,” Rosalind answers, severe and maternal as ever. But her voice gentles once more as she continues. “I mean it when I say that you ought to extend a hand. If he does not shake it, then you have done all that you could. But worry not, I shall ensure that he at least will behave civilly towards you.”

“Rosalind, he is not like to leap across the table to gut me with a butter knife,” David tells her, amused despite himself. It would be a profound lapse in manners from someone who is a terrible stickler to them.

“I mean that if you two were ever once again under the same roof, I would have to impose some very strict rules about not murdering or slandering one another. If you wished to have a brawl or a duel, you would need to do so in the gardens.”

“How uncharitable,” he observes. “But rest assured, I highly doubt he will challenge me to a duel. The Colonel is many things, but a murderer he is not.”

“I thought you believed that all soldiers were murderers, and proud of it.” Rosalind raises an eyebrow. “It was not your finest piece of writing, I must admit, nor particularly well-aimed.”

“Ah, yes. Though it is different, when it comes to killing me.”

“Cheeky,” she shakes her head in mock disappointment. “But now that I can rest assured that there will be no duels over honor lost, I would emphasize my recommendation that you two speak.”

“And do you know where I might find him to do that?”

On this matter, Rosalind falls silent, her brow creased in pensive thought.

“Rosa. Are you meaning to say that you do not know his whereabouts?” David’s voice pitches higher in disbelief, his eyebrows following suit.

“No! Of course I know where he is.” David is, yet again, on the receiving end of an exasperated look from his younger sister. “But I thought it might be better to invite him here, rather than you showing up on his doorstep unannounced like you intended.”

“If I was announced, he would know to expect me, and therefore be able to avoid it.”

“And if you simply appear without regard to anything that he may be occupied with, you will show yourself to be precisely the same as before. And that will not do at all.”

“At least I would get to see him,” David remarks sourly.

“Why is it that you are so opposed to meeting him here, if I may ask? It is as neutral as territory between the two of you could get, and with it comes a rather brilliant mediator.”

“I hardly think Roxanne has developed such acclaim just yet, though I do not doubt that she will in the future,” he says, deadpan. Rosalind holds a hand to her mouth, fingertips just brushing her upper lip in a completely sarcastic gesture of shock and offense. On another demure lady of society, perhaps, the effect would have been genuine rather than facetious. But then, perhaps not- David has always been a cynic.

“We were so close to reconciliation, and yet you have dashed any hope of it by insulting me so.” She even shakes her head for good measure.

“If that were all it took to truly wound you, then I ought to have written that you were not omniscient and only tolerably good at the meddling you so love to do,” he teases. It is not odd to him that they have already fallen into joking and poking fun at the matter, albeit in a tentative way. Instead, it is an encouragement, that healing may take place faster than he could have dared to hope. At least with his sister, and likely with his niece.

Rosalind’s prediction of the boy’s reaction hangs over his head for the rest of the conversation, even as it steers towards lighter waters.

-

He does not need to seek out Roxanne, as she corners him the next day, determination in her eyes and in the set of her mouth. She looks remarkably like her other uncle, and it is all David can do not to flinch away from the resemblance.

“Mother says that you two have talked and done an admirable job of resolving things,” she tells him with no preamble, as she settles down on the chair opposite him in the living room. She has gotten rather blunt, too; or perhaps this is a serious matter she would rather have out of the way entirely- if so, David cannot blame her for it.

“I am sure she did, since that is what happened,” he ventures, hesitant at first. He does not know where she wishes to take this, but Rosalind had given him some rather stern advice about letting her speak, and ensuring she knew he was listening.

“Hmm,” is all she answers, the syllable drawn out. “I do not think that she would lie to me about that.”

“I certainly hope not. Rosalind despises untruths when they are unnecessary,” he remarks. “And it is important to her that I fix things with you.”

“You say that as if you have personally wronged me,” she says, only it is a challenge.

“And have I? Because if so, it was unknowingly, and I am grievously, piteously sorry for it,” he responds almost immediately. He does his best to not sound patronizing- she would not appreciate it.

“…I could say that you have, and attempt to make you guess a list of grievances, but,” she pauses, worrying at her lower lip. “I think that would be a cruel and unnecessary thing to do. And Mother says I ought to be kind.”

“I cannot believe I am saying this, but your mother is right,” he tells her, allowing the appropriate amount of grudgingness to enter his tone. Rarely does David verbally admit that his sister is correct, but on this occasion, he thinks it wise.

“I cannot believe that you are saying it either,” she replies, solemn for just a moment before a familiar smile curves her lips. David finds himself relieved to see it. “You must be truly sincere about this entire thing.”

“I would not have even entertained the thought of coming to you, if I were not,” he says. David can sound shockingly confident when he wishes to, and this is no exception. But beneath it, there is still a kernel of honesty projected forth that he hopes she can see.

“I did not think that I was so formidable! But I must admit that it feels quite good to hear,” she tells him, conspiratorial for a second before her demeanor once again shifts to the serious. “Mother also said that you were going to speak to me, but were likely to delay because you were ‘chronically fearful of rejection’.”

That most certainly sounds like his sister.

“I wish I had not said that she was right before. Perhaps she could only be correct about a single thing?” he suggests, with a not entirely faked wince. “But she told me that I ought to give you time and some space- which I am aware is a flimsy excuse, but hardly think that the span of a night would have been enough.”

“So you would have waited until two nights had passed, or a whole fortnight?”

“I was not planning to stay as long as a fortnight. Two days would have sufficed well, I thought,” he says, his smile slightly self-deprecating.

“And I am coming to you now. So, you need not worry about my delicate constitution, if you were trying to spare it as such.”

“I would never. But- if I may speak?” He raises an eyebrow at her, and Roxanne nods, magnanimous like the royalty she is not. He cannot quite suppress an amused smile at her mannerisms. “Thank you, your Highness.”

“Much appreciated, young peasant,” she says, cheerily.

David resists the urge to point out that feudalism as a system is unsustainable in the present day, and instead focuses on what he came here to say. Reassurances, Rosalind had told him. David is not certain that he has ever been reassuring in his life, but now would be an excellent time to discover that ability.

“You voiced your concerns to me before I last left, and I have had quite some time to reflect upon them,” he begins. It is perhaps a shaky start, but it is one nonetheless.

“I should hope so,” she remarks. David gives her an unimpressed look, and she subsides- for the moment, given the utter lack of repentance in her expression. He gets the distinct impression that she is enjoying making this difficult for him. That is something she gets from her mother.

“No need for hope if it is already true,” he tells her. “But I had not realized how it would seem to you. The way I treated your mother- and, perhaps more importantly, the way I treated Dirk.”

“Mother has said that your relationship with her was at least half antagonism, and that was mutually tolerated and even encouraged,” she admits with a sigh. “It is perhaps not something that I should have said; I did not quite understand it. Why on earth would she tolerate your saying things like that? I could not fathom it. I still cannot. But if she is not upset, and not allowing it because you wore her down, then I suppose it is not something I need to worry about. Though I reserve my right to be upset at you for any future ill-treatment, and for Dirk.”

“I think that your mother is more than capable of handling me on her own, but I am sure that she would appreciate the support.”

“The Lalonde women are very much a united front,” Roxanne agrees, amicable yet again. “Just to be clear, I do not think I would have forgiven you on her behalf of my own volition.”

“I would expect no less. But I do want you to know that I feel differently about you and Dirk. And that- well. It will never change. Even if I may be upset with you, I would never try to damage your reputation. And I think that you will find that the Colonel’s reputation has hardly been tarnished by any association with me- if only by dint of him not giving one whit about what I or anyone else says about him.”

“That much is true. Dirk was not a man built for society, but he plays the game well. Even though you make it much harder for him than it needs to be.” A note of warning enters her voice, her expression shifting back to something more serious. He resists the urge to shift under the scrutiny.

“I cannot say that I did not mean to, because I did. But- he and I have a complicated relationship. Clearly. When your mother shoved a squalling two-year old into my arms and I did not know what to do, I still loved you and wanted you to stop crying. When she made me spend time with a solemn, strange boy, all I wanted to do was leave.”

“Is that the crux of it, that you like me more than him.”

“I suppose, yes. But you also did not start ignoring me as soon as you came of age, nor did you decide to spit on everything I ever believed in and purchase a commission to join the army.”

“That cannot be what this is about. You do not get that angry with someone over doing what near everyone else does.”

“Why must you make it sound so ridiculous? It was a perfect example of nepotism and corruption.”

“And you decided to choose the sole officer who actually has some modicum of respect from his soldiers as your target.”

“It does not matter what he did, it matters how he got there.”

“Just as it matters how _you_ got where you are?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I can count off the facts, if you would like. You took half our fortune, ran away to squander most of it in Europe and use the remainder after you returned to set up an entire life that we were not a part of. You all but abandoned your family, and it is ridiculous that you would be upset when Dirk still speaks to us and spends time with us.”

“He does not spend time with me!” He bursts out, and instantly regrets it.

“You are acting like a child, Uncle. Why should he _want_ to spend time with you if all you two do when you are together is fight?”

“We have our disagreements, and your mother and I still enjoy each other’s company,” he shoots back. “And we would not disagree so much if he had not decided to turn his back on me. As I said before. Fundamentally we are different people, and I can accept that, but it is terribly difficult to coexist with someone like him.”

“Or someone like you,” Roxanne mutters unbecomingly.

“If you are going to make snide comments, you might as well own up to it,” he says, waspish. David almost immediately regrets it- he should not snap at her. He is the adult, here. “But we are getting distracted, here.”

“Are we?”

“Yes, of course.” He tells her this emphatically, his brow furrowing. “I am not here to talk to you about my brother, I am here to talk to you about you. Which- could have been phrased better, but I think you understand my point.”

“Can the two things not be related?” she asks, crossing her arms. There is an increasingly stubborn set to her shoulders, one that David mislikes greatly. It cannot bode well for him.

“They could, if I had not said that one has nothing to do with the other.”

“And they are, since I said that one is directly related to the other.”

“Now we are just going around in circles, Roxanne.”

“Maybe so! But I just want you to understand that until you mend things with him, you cannot truly fulfil your purpose here. In reassuring me, or apologizing to me, or whatever it is that you had in mind. It is not that I hold a grudge for crimes against myself, but you must understand why it is I am still cautious.” Roxanne says this as if she has practiced it before, and perhaps she has imagined this scenario many times. Admittedly, David is unsure of how to feel about that.

“I do. I did when you first explained it to me, and I thought we had established that I would not do anything to hurt you then. I just wished to ensure that you understood that, now. Assuage you against future worries and doubt, I suppose,” he sighs out. “But here I discover that things were not resolved as I thought- not even close to it. We have not moved from that impasse, even though my own position has changed greatly.”

“I know. I- do not do this to punish you,” she tries again, now with a frown on her face. “But I will admit that I doubted your sincerity then, though there was nothing I could do to admit it. After all, you were right when you said that you had done nothing to me- intentionally or directly. I know that you may not like that I would like to be a proper young lady, at least for a while, but it is true. And you know that any slights against the family do reflect upon me as such.”

“They do. But I was not thinking of you, and you know that- and that is all that I can ask at the moment.” He does not quite sound as pitiful as he feels, knowing that his dear niece still scorns him, but it is a near thing. “I do not know how I can make you believe me, short of reconciling with Dirk, and that itself would be miraculous.” He cannot keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice at that. “Why must everything lead back to that single, impossible feat?”

“Likely because your troubled relationship with him is the root of several of our problems!” she exclaims, her mirth forced. She subsides after a moment, shaking her head. “Regardless. I do not know if I could expect him to forgive you- he can be terrible about that sort of thing, you know. But I think that your trying would be enough. If you really have reconsidered things.”

“I cannot say that I approve of your leveraging sibling hatred as proof of my sincerity,” David tells her, though he cannot bring himself to sound disapproving. “But Rosalind suggested as much.”

“My mother does know me quite well,” Roxanne agrees. “Though she would never insist on such a thing herself. It is the job of the youth to be impetuous and demanding, and so I must step in to fill those shoes.”

“Such a burden it is that you bear,” he says, solemnly. David hesitates for just a moment, before continuing. “But- other than that. You know that I am willing to speak to him, and that I intended to even before I came to see you, yes?”

“Yes,” Roxanne answers immediately, her smile sunny. “So really, there is no need to talk about leveraging anything! You would have done it, and I think that any conversation you have with him will be much more difficult than ours. And so you shall have my sympathy, and forgiveness and will be all the easier. Though I suppose forgiveness is the wrong word, coming from me. Reconciliation, perhaps?”

“Let us just say that it is the renewal of a familial bond that I never should have let wither,” he offers, with a small smile of his own. It is not something that he feels; for all Roxanne seems startlingly sure of herself, David has been thrust into a new world of uncertainty. It is only a small comfort that she does not expect the impossible, and yet he finds that her predictions only make him feel worse.

“That suits quite well- there is no need to look so dour,” she adds, a frown now tugging at her lips. “I realize that my words may not have been the most encouraging, but I am not saying anything that you have not already thought. And no matter what his reaction is, I trust that yours will be dignified. Calm. The very model of filial piety, even.”

“Such faith in me, I should never have doubted it,” he makes himself laugh a little, shaking his head. “But still. It is good to know that I shall not lose all my family once my apology attempt goes southwards.”

“Of course not! Despite our differences and disagreements, I _do_ love you. You are my uncle, even if you’re a fool sometimes,” she tells him firmly.

“Now you just sound like your mother,” he answers, with a deliberately theatrical expression of distaste. “And one of Rosalind is more than enough for this world to handle, for your information. I like my niece the way she is, as opposed to a little clone of her scheming mother.”

“She _does_ meddle a frightful amount, doesn’t she,” Roxanne sighs, mournful. “And this is where your real betrayal of me lies, you know. Yours and Dirk’s, for that matter.”

“Oh, blaming the Colonel now? My, it must be quite the serious offense. Capital punishment, I take it?”

“It would be deserved! You have both left me here, and firmly rebuffed any of my mother’s attempts to ‘solve’ any of your problems, or even create them, if she wished to be vindictive. Do you know how well Dirk manages to dodge her questions?”

“By dint of not being present, I am sure he has a stunning aptitude for it,” David remarks, acerbic. But it is no different with him. “And I have long grown used to your mother’s nose sticking where it ought not to be. Tragically my own business is terribly repugnant, and so she rarely meddles outright. She does excel at pulling strings behind the scenes, though never as subtly as she might hope.”

“Subtlety is not something that runs in this family, I daresay,” Roxanne mutters. It’s a terribly petulant remark for a young lady to make, but he does not bother to correct her on it. Certainly, David is in no place to criticise anyone’s manners. But the comment is so thoroughly _Roxanne_ that he cannot bring himself to suggest she try and modulate herself to fit into a mold. Not that she appears to be doing much more than donning a mask, and he thinks privately that she will soon tire of the boring social games, though he would not mention it to her. It would be a terrible idea, to try and discourage her now, when they are just beginning to move past it. In truth, this time.

“Not in the slightest,” he agrees, with some of his cheer returning. There is no need for her to see the cloud hanging over his head, and worry about it. This is what it is like to be considerate, and David is not sure he is particularly fond of it. But he certainly will not complain to Rosalind, as she does not deal well in reassurances. “But- shall we adjourn any complaining until after dinner, when your mother is halfway to falling asleep and not like to hear and scold us?”

Roxanne beams at him, the distance between them seemingly evaporated for the time being. Perhaps she would be able to handle herself well in the den of snakes, after all. It is no wonder that David thought the matter resolved, and that this conversation would be a token, perfunctory one. It bothers him through dinner, and late into the night, but he does not voice any misgivings to his niece or his sister.

It would do no good, after all. They will not hear of it as anything other than him attempting to weasel out of a promise made, yet again, and that would shatter any goodwill. No. He will have to see the Colonel when the boy accepts Rosalind’s invitation, and then she shall live up to her end of the bargain. David likes to think that he would still be able to tell, if it all failed and she still bore a kernel of resentment towards him, but he does not know.

-

He’s with Rosalind when Roxanne receives the letter, addressed to the both of them. They have been awaiting a response to the dinner invitation for two entire days now- and David is near certain that it would be a rejection of some kind. With the Colonel such a slave to his duties, it is a near impossibility to think that a lack of reply could be anything other than by design. He had refrained from pointing that out to either of them, though; he was certain that they knew. But it had settled a strange, thick tension across the house, an absence screaming louder than it had any right to.

David had spent hours in the study yet again, with only a growing pile of crumpled papers the testament to the time wasted there trying to pen the perfect missive. The only letter he managed to send was one the Hal, giving a brief, useless summary of the situation, and promising more details when he returned. There is no reply to that, either, but David does not worry; it will take time to get to London, and then more time for the reply to get back. The earliest he could receive it is tomorrow.

David thinks he does an admirable job of not spending too long in the study, though. The memory of Dirk’s mouth on his own has faded less than he would like, and he finds that he cannot go for long without thinking of it. And that leads to things that he also would rather not think of, only perpetuating the miserable cycle as he waits.

He has ventured down to the sitting room with the aim of unsubtly lingering, and a book to make it more comfortable for all involved, though he had not yet opened it when a maid entered, the letter in hand. It had clearly been just delivered, and an urgent matter, if her heavy breathing and flushed face is anything to go by- either that, or she has indulged in a brief affair just now. But such an appearance would ruin the subtlety entirely.

Roxanne sits with her mother, shoulder to shoulder, and David does not pay them much attention; he’s absorbed in attempting to come up with ideas for a new script. Wealthy as he is, he does need to produce one, though the pejoratives seem to have stemmed their flow, despite there being so very much to mock about this society in which he lives. He toys with the idea of something aimed at the French- suitably patriotic in these climes, perhaps something to do with the Baroness Condé? She above all else is worth the mockery, though a dangerous target. Her retaliation would be swift and brutal, and he finds himself rather enamoured with a potential response and an escalation of their quiet rivalry. Perhaps he should not have spurned her first letter so, but alas, the woman is a witch.

There is also the chance to call his dearest brother out on cowardice, charge him with fleeing the scene of a crime, but- that would involve the admittance of a crime to begin with, and David would rather cling to his innocence, whatever shreds of it that remain. Regardless of the shambles his reputation may be in, there are some things you ought not to even hint at in polite company, especially not with oneself implicated in it.

He does not notice the hush in the room, not until he glances up idly to see Roxanne with a hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with distress. He sits up automatically, eyes sliding over to Rosalind. He would not admit that he is looking to his sister for cues, but in any event, it is entirely unhelpful- she appears to be in much the same state, albeit more subdued in affectation.

“What?” He demands, voice harsher than he may have expected. It shatters the silence in the room like a gunshot, but the tension remains, drawn tight as a noose. “What is it?” David repeats. This time, he forces himself to modulate his tone into something gentler.

Rosalind does not speak. Her fingers grasp the paper of the letter loosely, though David cannot make out the handwriting on it. She appears to be composing an answer, an exercise David rarely has the patience for.

He does not need to wait long this time. Roxanne, sweet darling girl that she is, pulls the letter away and wordlessly slides it across the table, towards David. His heart drops when he recognizes the familiar penmanship. Surely, he has not told them. Surely, Dirk has not ruined them both.

_I have been called away once more to the Continent by the duties of my station, and have enclosed my last will and testament, signed and notarized, should it be necessary. The affairs of my estate are in order, though it is my sincerest hope that it shall not come to that. Nevertheless, I would like to offer my deepest gratitude and sincerest of affections for the kindness you have shown me._

_Sincerely,_

_Col. Dirk Strider, Esq._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: ‘Get thee gone’ taken from Antigone, lines 321-322 if I’ve done my math right. If there’s any significance to Hal quoting Antigone, specifically, well. That’s up to you.   
> 2: ‘Get thee to a nunn’ry’, from Hamlet Act 3 Scene 1, line 120-121.  
> 3: ‘Get thee gone from my gate, thou jail-crow of Mandos’, from Tolkien’s Silmarillion, as spoken by Feänor to Morgoth. Roughly translated: ‘Get the fuck away from my house, you’re evil and you ain’t fooling me.’ Certainly anachronistic, and definitely not relevant to the general Christian (and non-Valarin deity) of the day, but I couldn’t resist.   
> [The previous ‘wars’ Dirk fought in that he refers to is:  
> The Peninsular War (1807-1814, part of the Napoleonic Wars): Fighting took place in Spain and Portugal as Napoleon advanced, British troops supplemented them. He had purchased his commission at 16, and went through the requisite training. He was injured in 1811, nearly dying, and was sent back to recover, and he remained there for four years. In 1815, he participated in the War of the Seventh Coalition during the Hundred Days Napoleon seized power in France once again, despite his previous exile. As you can imagine, this did not last very long.]
> 
> Essentially, I put way too much thought into making a fuckin' incest fic historically accurate.

**Author's Note:**

> 1: To cast up ones accounts: period slang for vomit.
> 
> Also! David keeps referring to Dirk as a boy, which is just because he doesn’t see Dirk as an equal- Dirk’s in his 20s and a fully grown man by any standard. He also does it to get on Dirk’s nerves, on the rare occasion that they’re face to face.
> 
> One note about relationships: Bro is ostensibly David and Rose's father, their mother is Mom Lalonde, though this isn't actually ever mentioned. But David is the oldest sibling, Rose only a year younger than him, and Dirk is the youngest by a whole lot. Their mother died while giving birth to him, and their father vanished almost immediately after. Roxy is Rose's daughter, though her father is not in the picture, and therefore Dirk and David's niece, though Dirk does treat her more like a little sister than a niece.


End file.
